Rehearsals
by Bryon Nightshade
Summary: To conquer the world, one must have good help. That was the point of OZ. This story is a look into the past, and the trials and travails of two men as they prepared the greatest coup of all time. Complete.
1. From the Ground Up

Disclaimer: this story contains characters and situations that do not belong to this author. They belong to one or more of the following: Bandai, Sunrise, SOTSU. This story is copyright Bryon Nightshade, a.k.a. Sam Durbin, and is bound by all applicable laws and statutes.

Rehearsals

            The planet Earth is no longer the only home of human beings. Permanent space stations or colonies now exist that harbor a significant portion of humanity. The construction of the first of these colonies was such an important event that a new calendar was created to commemorate it. Despite the change in scenery, some things never change.

            The United Earth Sphere Alliance first came into being to mediate international disputes and resolve the issues between nations and between colonies. Over time, it adopted a policy that the best way to prevent wars between nations was to control those nations' actions directly. Since the Alliance had a practical monopoly on military power, there was no effective check to this new policy. In this manner, the Alliance dictated the actions of the nations of Earth and the colonies of space. Not surprisingly, discontent has run rampant at the Alliance's heavy-handedness. Rebels and malcontents of every stripe have designs on the Alliance's destruction… or corruption.

            The year is After Colony 193, and one particular group of rebels has won twin victories. It has recruited a dangerous new agent, and it has successfully insinuated itself into the Alliance military…

            "'Lieutenant Colonel' Treize Khushrenada?"

            Second Lieutenant Zechs Marquise pointed at an unopened box containing rank insignia. The box rested on a desk, and behind that desk sat a smiling former major. "The United Earth Sphere Alliance felt they had to promote me. It was enough of an embarrassment that they were allowing me to form this new unit, the Special Mobile Suit Corps, but for a mere major to command it…"

            Zechs smiled below his mask. "Yes. The Alliance wants to draw as little attention to this unit as it can. A major in command would bring unwanted controversy."

            "Your own promotion is on its way," said Treize. Zechs made no reaction. "I didn't expect that to mean much to you. It's merely symbolic, but symbols have their own power."

            "Sir…" began Zechs. "It bothers me that I'm going to be a leader in a unit whose purpose I don't yet know. You recruited me, said you'd "make me your knight", but that's all you've told me."

            Treize stood. "I plan to address that bother. Come with me. We're on our way to Africa."

            "Africa?"

            "The Alliance's main mobile suit testing and training grounds, in Africa."

            Zechs' thoughts flashed back. The last time he'd been in Africa was his graduation from the Lake Victoria Military Academy... He brushed the thoughts from his mind. Nostalgia was worthless. Right now, his task was to serve Treize as best he could.

            They sat facing each other on Treize's shuttle. Zechs tried to stuff his impatience. After promising to address the subject, Treize had said nothing. Zechs was learning that everything Treize did had a very deliberate pace, was calculated for effect.

            It just annoyed him horribly.

            "The Specials," Treize announced, catching Zechs unready. "They're a new unit in the Alliance, but they will serve our purposes as well. Their main purpose, their avowed purpose to the Alliance, is to test out new mobile suits and new tactics for those mobile suits. You've received Alliance training and fought in their war games, so you know the Alliance doesn't comprehend how to properly use mobile suits in combat."

            Zechs nodded. It was symptomatic of a pattern in the Alliance: they often tampered with forces and took actions they didn't fully understand. It was a dangerous pattern, with serious consequences—something Zechs knew first-hand. It was the reason Zechs had joined this conspiracy with Treize in the first place.

            That… and the personal charisma of Treize Khushrenada.

            "This lack of understanding, along with my influence and connections, are what forced the Alliance to agree to form this unit," Treize continued.

            "So how does it serve our ends?" Zechs asked.

            "Mostly through its avowed purpose," Treize said. "However, we will instruct these pilots in more than just tactics and techniques. We will indoctrinate them politically. We'll induct them into my organization, OZ, and then make them the best pilots in the Earth sphere."

            Zechs nodded—it was such a simple, yet devastating plan. "Once we've trained and recruited them," he said, guessing the rest, "we cycle them back out to the other Alliance mobile suit units. Thus, within every Alliance unit there will be elite, specially trained soldiers loyal to OZ."

            Treize's smile was serene for one contemplating conquering the world. "It's a world-wide coup d'etat waiting to happen. OZ will have a presence in every Alliance unit. They will all strike simultaneously, crippling the Alliance beyond repair within the first six hours."

            "Then the all-Specials units can clean up the rest," Zechs concluded. "Take over the world a country at a time, as quickly as our units can move from place to place. Every country and base will be hamstrung by the first blow, incapable of coordination and mutual defense."

            "So you see," said Treize, "we don't have to match the Alliance's sheer military strength to conquer it. If we make it impossible for them to move and concentrate their power, the Alliance is only as strong as its best individual unit. And on a unit by unit basis, OZ will be superior."

            It was a powerful plan—but Zechs had his doubts.

            "You can tell me," said Treize.

            Sometimes Zechs imagined Treize could read minds, and only asked for speech to be polite. "Sir… in order for this plan to work, the fact that each member of Specials is a member of OZ has to be concealed. However, part of the plan is for pilots to cycle in and out of Specials. If anyone who comes to Specials does not accept our message, doesn't want to join OZ, he's a security risk to the entire operation."

            Treize gave the smile he always used before saying something to blow Zechs' mind. Zechs braced as Treize spoke. "Then we will just have to be extra persuasive, shall we not?"

            Zechs was glad his mask was on, his shock hidden by its white surface. "Sir, that's… bold," he managed.

            "I thought you'd have that reaction. Of course, we will be selective in whom we accept into Specials, and we will contain everyone while they're in Specials—and no one will be sent out from Specials until they're a devoted member of OZ."

            "Naturally," said Zechs. He still wasn't convinced.

            "Additionally, Specials will serve as the mechanism for getting those already in OZ to the correct positions. But one step at a time. First, we will arrive in Africa."

            Zechs followed Treize as they left his shuttle. Around them were hangars and repair bays for mobile suits. "Are the personnel here ours?" he said. 'Ours' meaning both part of Specials, and part of OZ.

            "Most of them. The remainder will depart shortly."

            Zechs looked around. Most of the hangars had Leos—an earlier production run of Leos, he determined visually. Primitive equipment and electronics, no doubt. The Alliance was tolerating the Specials, but not funding them much.

            Treize turned his head as he kept walking. "You deserve the best equipment, my knight, and you will get it. Rest assured of that; I have backers who will ensure it, regardless of the Alliance's vendettas. In actuality, it's better this way. When we sever ties with the Alliance it won't hurt the Specials."

            Zechs nodded. With Treize, everything was planned out, everything was certain; he knew how the world worked, and his confidence was absolute. Either he's a genius, Zechs thought, or a very convincing madman. I'm not sure which is more dangerous.

            Outside of the base perimeter was nothing but open savannah as far as the eye could see. "Well," said Zechs, "at least security will be easy to maintain."

            "You're optimistic, then?" said Treize. "That's unusual."

            "My pessimism is the necessary counter for your optimism. Begging your pardon, sir."

            "Don't worry, I prefer it that way. Now let's go about and assume command."

            Zechs finally realized what "assume command" meant.

            Paperwork.

            Lots and lots of paperwork.

            It was a shock to him, because he found himself—totally without warning—the director of mobile suit operations for the Specials. It was quite a leap from being just a pilot. He could only pray that he wouldn't have to write so much in the future. He almost rejoiced when he cleared away enough of his paperwork to get out and head for the hangars.

            "Not a single Aires," he said to himself. He knew, he'd gone over the inventory. "That's alright. I needed to start with Leos anyway."

            The Leo—basis of all mobile suit units. It was a humanoid machine that walked with feet and fought with hands. Typically, the Leo carried a machine gun built to its proportions. In many ways, the Leo didn't seem all that different from a typical soldier on the ground—just on a larger scale.

            And that larger scale included heavy armor and heavy weaponry, which was why people even bothered with mobile suits. Besides, having a war machine with hands allowed it to fulfill many functions not possible for a simpler war machine.

            Zechs' motions were automatic; he was on autopilot. Without even willing it he was traveling through the hangar, selecting a Leo, and rising towards its cockpit. He strapped himself in, cleared his departure with base control, and grasped the joysticks.

            "Lightning one, moving out," he said.

            "Roger," confirmed the base.

_            'Lightning one'? No squadron here is called "Lightning". It just occurred to me. Well, they do call me the Lightning Lieutenant, and I am certainly the first pilot in the squadron. So. Lightning it is._

            He moved the Leo out—walking slowly until he passed the gates, then at a slow loping jog. And when the base faded out of sight of his monitors, his mind burst free.

_            What have I gotten myself into?_

_            I'm just a mobile suit pilot—and I don't actually want to be a pilot in the first place. Being a pilot is simply my destiny, the one method by which I can attain the goals I've set for myself._

_            The same is true of my alliance with Treize. He's promised to help me; he seems to be the only method available to me. On the other hand, his is the single most dangerous route._

_            I'm letting myself be swept away by Treize's personal charisma. He would be a good man to have as a friend, if he had less ambition. Yet I've committed myself to conquering the world for him, so I can accomplish my own mission._

            He shook his head. He had half a mind to try some evasive maneuvers to liven things up and keep himself sharp, but he needed all his faculties analyzing the real problems he faced.

_            The fact remains that this is a little late to be having second thoughts. The decision has already been made; I can never go back, even if I wanted to, to being a brilliant but hated __Alliance__ pilot. I am now a brilliant but hated pilot, and a friend of a man with delusions of grandeur. And a traitor, can't forget that. But then again, I was a traitor when I joined the __Alliance__ and donned my mask, so that hasn't changed._

            He sighed and turned back for the base.

_            Fine, then. I'll throw everything into making this plan of Treize's work. I'll fulfill my destiny with his help. And then I'll decide, after it's over, whether or not I made the right choice._

            He laughed a little. _Who knows? Maybe I'll end up agreeing with Treize after all. Maybe I'll buy into this deal about exalting the warrior as a way to bring peace. _

_            Maybe not. Either way, I'm jumping the gun. I am Zechs Marquise. I have infinite patience, and I have things to do.  Step one, I teach the Specials Mobile Suit troops in the art of mobile suit combat as best I can. Step two, I accomplish my revenge. Step three, I finish my service to Treize as we conquer the world. That's quite enough for one person to handle without the self-recrimination. That can wait._

            He entered the base's perimeter and moved over to the hangar. "Lightning one, returning."

            "Roger, park at position one-five-two," said control.

            Zechs would have sworn that the voice was Treize's.

            "And then join me in the base commander's suite."

            Doubt vanished.

            "Yes, sir."

            Zechs entered into Treize's office. "Sir," he said.

            "Zechs, I just wanted to speak to you about the task you are about to undertake." Unusually, Treize was speaking at Zechs through his back; Treize's eyes were looking out the window towards the base below.

            _Surveying your domain already, Treize?_ Zechs thought. _It's smaller than your ambition—your self-control is impressive._

            "I'd like for you to know that your job is the most important in OZ right now. Training the first set of pilots is the most critical—because that first set will become the instructors for future sets, and those that cycle back out to the regular Alliance military will find new prospects and send them to us. If our plan is to succeed, we must have a strong first class."

            He finally turned to Zechs and settled those powerful, penetrating eyes upon his subordinate. "So if there is anything you need from me, any resource you might require, I will do my utmost to ensure that you receive it."

            "Thank you, sir," said Treize. He could think of nothing else to say.

            "Because of the importance of this first group," Treize continued, "it will consist of the most motivated pilots already in OZ, and it will be much smaller. Some of those pilots will then be available to assist you, allowing you to handle and instruct larger groups."

            Zechs nodded as he took all of this in. "Thank you, sir."

            Treize nodded in return, then looked away. "There was only one thing I could not do for you, and that is change the timetable. You will have only two months with each group, and the first group arrives in one week. Although this will allow you to teach a larger volume of pilots, it will reduce the time you have with them and the time you have to evaluate and improve your methods."

            "I understand," said Zechs calmly, though internally he was moaning. Just one week? He'd be lucky if he had even a basic curriculum planned by that time! Plus there was all the administrative work to do…

            "On the positive side, I am bringing in some people to relieve some of the paperwork burden upon you. I want your full attention to be on your real job."

            "Thank you, sir," said Zechs, though his words mixed with a sigh of relief.

            "And as I said," said Treize, once more turning flush to Zechs, "if there is anything else I can do for you, I will make it so."

            "Sir, believe me, that's very comforting."

            Treize smiled. "You're dismissed."

            Zechs saluted, turned about, and left.

            As he walked down the hall, he smiled to himself. _For someone who's bent on world conquest, he's a remarkably decent employer. _

            Zechs' mind was working frantically. He struggled to remember his lesson plan—attempted to match the personnel files he'd received with the expectant soldiers watching him now—tried to analyze how they might respond to certain things.

            But all of that was internal. He betrayed no external worries or signs of any kind—he simply stood before them as their teacher, his bearing perfect.

            _I am Zechs Marquise_, he thought. _The mask represents my self-control—my ability to keep everything inside of me. I am calm. I am collected. I am your teacher._

            And the instant he began talking, his thoughts settled. His mind sorted itself and waited for his orders.

            "My name is First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise," he said. He felt it quite interesting how he was addressing some pilots who were higher in rank than he himself. _No thanks to you, Treize. _

            "I will be your primary mobile suit instructor while you are here, at the Special Mobile Suit Corps Training Center. The mobile suit is the most powerful piece of military equipment in existence. Therefore, the winner of future wars will be the side that can deploy, employ, and coordinate mobile suit actions effectively—and the side whose pilots are better equipped and trained for killing other mobile suits. My job is to give you that training, primarily at the pilot's level, but secondarily on the operational level."

            There were some murmurs at this point. Zechs didn't blame them, and knew for certain that he would have their doubts if he was a 'student' at this point. After all, their "teacher" was clearly very young, and wore a big white mask and First Lieutenant's insignia. What could he possibly have to offer them? _If these are the most dedicated, the pilots already in OZ, I can only imagine what it will be like when it comes time to start on regular Alliance troops._

            Plus, there was his uniform. Rather than the standard olive drab uniform worn by the pilots all around him, he wore a bright red dress uniform complete with cape—on Treize's advice, no less. "You are not normal," he remembered Treize saying. "Be sure they know that. Actively be their commander, have the presence of a commander, and they will follow you. In time, that uniform will be tied to your identity as a pilot, and your legend will grow."

_            Well, in any event, they know I'm not normal._

            "Since we don't have much time, we will move very quickly in this course," he said. "There will be two exercises or combat sorties per day, minimum, with their attendant briefings and de-briefings, along with three classes per day, again at a minimum. We will all work very long hours." _They took that news fairly well,_ Zechs thought. _Their work ethic should be good. It has to be for this to work._

            A sense of inadequacy struck him suddenly but viciously. _The arrogance I must adopt to take care of this post is colossal. While I can tell that the __Alliance__ is dead wrong in its methods and thoughts, how can I be sure that I am any better?_

_            Well, Treize Khushrenada has faith in me. I just need for that to be enough._

            He plowed on with a confidence in his voice that didn't exist in his mind. "You all know the basics of mobile suit combat—you're all checked out by the Alliance's standards—but we are going to rebuild you. Starting with a firm basis in maneuver, we'll move on into firing-on-the-move and close-in combat, all geared specifically towards mobile suit-on-mobile suit combat. If we have time we will even practice basic melee skills."

            There was a definite reaction to this statement. Though the Alliance did allow certain of its pilots to carry beam sabers for melee combat, its tactical doctrine all but forbade their use. _But it does work. Sometimes. Plus, it's a much more accurate measurer of skill than ranged combat._

            "Does anyone have any questions before we really get started?"

            One hand rose. It belonged to a woman who wore a severe expression beneath her glasses. Her hair was wrapped into two tight buns. Zechs remembered back to the personnel files he'd memorized—that would be Major Une, and according to her file, the meticulous and strict style of her hair was an apt example of her overall attitude.

            "Just one, Lieutenant," she said, enunciating his rank carefully. "Who are we being trained to fight?"

            Zechs restrained a wry smile. _No easy questions for the rookie, I see. She smells blood. This woman is dangerous. And, even though Treize assures me that all of these people are in OZ, I must behave as if they are not. That means I can't say, "Your future opponents are the entire Earth Sphere __Alliance__ military."_

            "You are being trained to be the best pilots in the Earth sphere," he said.

            "You didn't answer my question, sir," she said, a touch of menace in her voice. "Currently, only the Earth Sphere Alliance has the technology to build mobile suits. It is hardly fitting for officers in the Alliance to train for battle against the Alliance itself."

            "No, I did answer your question, Major," he responded, slightly on the defensive. "The most powerful weapon that exists is a skilled pilot in a mobile suit. The purpose of this training is to produce the best pilots possible—pilots capable of winning any engagement, beating any enemy. Since the future is uncertain, and technology unavoidably spreads, then versatile pilots are necessary. To sum up, you are being trained to defeat anyone."

            "That's very ambitious, sir," she said. "I hope that this training accomplishes its goals."

            Zechs saw it, then. Luckily he managed to keep his reaction internal.

_            You couldn't resist, could you, Treize?_

            "Let's get started," he said. He hoped that working would help him cover up the things he felt.

            "Sir," Zechs said stiffly.

            "Welcome, Zechs," said Treize, still wearing his disarming smile.

            "Why did you send one of your agents into this opening class?"

            "My dear knight, whatever do you mean? All the students are members of OZ, so technically they are all my "agents"."

            "I mean Major Une," said Zechs, managing to restrain himself.

            "Ah, yes. Subtlety isn't exactly her strong point, is it?" said Treize, turning his eyes on a vase of roses. "Please, sit down. Yes, I told her to test you, to push you, to make this class difficult. I want her to learn, so please don't treat her any differently. That would insult her, besides."

            "But why, sir?"

            "Everyone here is in training, Zechs. Myself, the students, and you. Even though this class, as a rule, will be extremely cooperative, you need someone to test your limits so that you, like your pilots, will be able to handle everything."

            Zechs nodded. "In that case, may I ask where you found her?"

            "Lady Une, you mean?" asked Treize, a slight smile on his lips.

            "Yes, sir," said Zechs, somewhat unnerved by Treize calling her "lady".

            "You like her?" Treize said, though with a tone that made Zechs almost feel like his superior was teasing him.

            "She's dangerous, I can feel it."

            Treize drew out one of the roses and brought it to his face. "Yes, she is. And very dedicated. She is by far the most motivated soldier in OZ."

            "I believe you, sir," said Zechs, his mind going back over her service record.

            "Under normal circumstances, she is my statistician and one of my planning aides," said Treize. "Her skills are undeniable. But as to where she came from… you are aware, of course, of the growing resurgence of nobility in the world."

            "More aware than you can imagine, sir," said Zechs, shifting uncomfortably.

            "It's time I explain exactly who is funding us. Some members of the new nobility have banded together in an extra-national block. They find that they have more in common with each other than with the wishes either of their own countries or the Alliance. They created the Romefeller Foundation as the method for them to combine and exert influence."

            Zechs nodded. "So OZ is the military extension of Romefeller."

            "That's correct. Although unifying their finances and influences has granted the nobility some power, Romefeller lacks several key ingredients. First, a way to exert military power. Second, a coherent plan for the future. Third, an ideology. And fourth, a leader capable of rising above the aristocratic squabbles that inevitably arise."

            "And that's where you come in," said Zechs. "OZ, which you control, is the method of exerting power. You have a plan for overthrowing the Alliance and establishing Romefeller as the rulers. Your glorification of the warrior and warrior virtues is your ideology. And you yourself are the leader."

            "It sounds very narcissistic when you put it that way," said Treize. "However, you did speak the truth. The officials of Romefeller, at least, have bought into my arguments. They're now pouring their money into Specials, and into mobile suits in general. Suffice to say, there is little we might need that we would have much trouble acquiring."

            Zechs nodded. "Except loyalty."

            Treize smiled. "Some people will sell their loyalty, but those are not the sorts of people whom we would want in OZ. I'm glad you agree with me on this matter."

            There was a moment of silence. "Sir, you still haven't answered my question."

            "About where Lady Une came from?"

            "Yes."

            Treize's smile turned inscrutable. "That is between me and her."

            Zechs gave the slightest of sighs. "Sir," he said, standing, "is there anything else?"

            Treize shook his head. "Feel free to go. But please, do come by tomorrow evening."

            Zechs saluted. "Yes, sir," he said, and left.

            "Next," said Zechs, utterly calm. "The next pilot may engage when ready."

            Not far outside the gate to the base, a gaggle of Leos stood, observing Zechs. One of them emerged, strode to within a hundred meters, and waited.

            Zechs sighed. "I said, engage when ready." Why did they all hesitate to do anything unless he directly told them?

            Now his would-be opponent raised his weapon, aimed for a moment, and fired a burst towards Zechs.

            The shot wasn't close enough to set off Zechs' proximity alarms.

            His Leo was in motion the moment his enemy raised his weapon. The enemy's shot went wide, and his follow up shots continued to trail behind Zechs.

            _Doesn't he know how to 'lead' a target? I suppose not. How disappointing—and how disappointingly common_.

            Zechs noticed that his opponent was moving only his Leo's arms, not its torso, as it tracked Zechs' movement. _In that case…_ He fired a hard burst from his maneuvering thrusters, pushing him much further ahead of his target's firing arc. Stupidly, the pilot tried to track Zechs, only to discover that his Leo's arms didn't bend like that.

            Free of enemy fire for a moment, Zechs brought his weapon to bear on his target and fired several purposefully inaccurate shots. To his surprise, his target stood his ground, bringing his own torso and then gun around and firing a few shots in return.

            Zechs maneuvered around them easily, and just to be sure he fired a few more bursts at his target. Still the pilot refused to move, his Leo's feet planted firmly.

_            In that case, allow me to show you what happens to immobile targets._

            Zechs fired one more shot into his target's Leo—no way he could ignore that. Zechs then gave him a scant second to start maneuvering—and when the other pilot still did not, Zechs poured training rounds into him for three full seconds.

            Even one solid second of training bullets would be more than enough to end the simulation—three was a direct chastisement.

            Zechs cued his comm. "Base, Lightning one. Report on target…" he looked at his heads-up display, "…Bravo six."

            "Confirmed," the soldier on the other end responded. "Bravo six, pilot ID: first lieutenant Amos."

            Zechs was surprised—he'd thought from Amos' record that he was better than that. "Gunnery score: three out of seven, piloting score: one out of seven."

            "Confirmed," the respondent said again. "Gunnery three, piloting one."

            "Roger." Zechs waved Amos off of the training grounds and sighed. _I didn't think my material would be this raw. I don't even need to rest between engagements._ He shook his head, then changed frequencies again. "Next."

            Zechs looked as if he hadn't fought even a single combatant—uniform immaculate, face clean, hair straight. The rest of the debriefing room, however, contained a mass of surly, sweaty soldiers with a variety of hateful expressions on their faces.

            "Does anyone know the reasons for the engagements just held?" Zechs said.

            "To boost your ego!" a faceless voice shouted.

            Zechs half-smiled. "Clever, but wrong. Today's series of matches were to evaluate all of you, to gain an understanding of the level of your combat skills—and of your mental readiness."

            Zechs pushed a button, and on the large screen behind him appeared a roster of the pilots, along with their rating in both piloting and gunnery. _It is, itself, a motivator. The pilots at the bottom wish to improve so that they can escape the embarrassment of being at the bottom,  the pilots at the top must keep working to remain there, and the pilots in the middle have something to shoot for and something to avoid._

            "Your skills, on average, are marginally superior to the typical Alliance pilot—but that's like saying it would take 1.1 enemy Leos to kill you, as opposed to one. This is unacceptable. Moreover, there are serious flaws in your mental state and thought processes."

            Murmurs. _They're dissatisfied. In a way, that's good. The trick will be to channel that dissatisfaction so that it rests with their own deficiencies, rather than me. If I can manage the former, we'll have a strong class. If not, Specials may well be still-born._

            "Each Leo was assigned a designation, and it was obvious that I was calling you in order of your Leo's designation. Why, then, was there so much hesitation between the end of one fight and the beginning of another? Why did I have to repeat two or three times that it was the next pilot's turn? Each successive pilot should have been ready, should have already been thinking on how to make the coming fight more even, and should have attacked the instant the opportunity arose." He paused. When he spoke again, it wasn't any louder, but it held a strong negative emphasis. "Hesitation."

            He showed an overhead picture of the training ground. "Notice this. I set up directly in front of a hill. If any of you had had presence of mind, you could have gone around the back of the hill and set up in cover, thus making it far harder for me to hit you and allowing you better chances in your fight against me. Instead, each of you went to the same spot your comrades began at, even after you saw that I could defeat you easily, all things being equal."

            In the same tone as before, he bit off, "Unimaginative."

            He clasped his hands behind his back. "No doubt you're thinking now, 'Well, how was I supposed to know I could move before he said next?' Am I right? You're thinking things along the lines of, He never told me what order he was going in, or, Wouldn't he have told me if I could move?

            "Am I right?" he concluded.

            There were more murmurs, and a few nods.

            "You are dead wrong," Zechs said, emphasizing the 'dead'. "I never specified where you should have engaged me from, or where you could start, or when you could move. I told you, "I will wait here and fight you in turn"—you could have done whatever you wanted to. Instead, you adopted the opposite interpretation—that you would not act unless I told you to act, and anything outside of my specific instruction was forbidden."

            As if it was a curse, he said, "Dependence."

            He gestured back towards the board. "The numbers prove this, but it was something I felt myself. Each successive pilot who fought me should have done better. Fighting this many should have worn me out over time. Instead, the average score actually declined in the later fights."

            He stared at them, conveying his dissatisfaction even through the mask. "As you grew more aware of my abilities, you became more tentative, more lifeless, more instinctive, and much, much less effective. You knew that I would defeat you, and so you shut down. You had lost before the battle even began."

            And he finished most virulently of all. "Fear."

            He let the room fall silent for a moment. No one dared murmur now; some even turned their faces away in shame. "When you overcome your fear is when you are at the peak of your skills as a soldier, but that is almost beside the point. When the odds are impossible, when you are going to lose, that is when a soldier truly shines—that is when he is at his noblest. A soldier has fear; it's natural. But if you allow that fear to dominate you, you lose everything. In actuality, our entire existence is preparation for that moment when we stand at the brink.

            "There, and only there, can we find what is great within ourselves.

            "It may sound trivial or meaningless—after all, when you're about to die, what can really be important? But if, at that moment, you are ready to give it all—to fight and die for what seems meaningless, to throw your last gasps at the enemy, to dare him to finish you off so that you can bleed him with your dying strikes—if you overcome your fear at that time… Then, regardless of anything else that happens, I will call you brother."

            It wasn't even as if the volume or tone of his voice changed—but there had been something in it, some underlying passion, that demanded attention and respect.

            Zechs struggled to retain his composure. Ever since adopting his mask, he'd buried his emotions deep inside. Still, he'd never lost sight of them, and under Treys' tutelage was learning how to channel them. He was succeeding better than he'd thought possible—and his bearing was suffering as a consequence.

            He breathed in slowly several times, then continued. "Hesitation. Lack of imagination. Dependence. Fear. These are things you cannot have and still be a mobile suit pilot. If you hesitate, you are lost. If you lack imagination, you will be predicted and overcome. If you depend upon those above you, you lose the will and energy to fight. And if you give in to fear, you cannot be a soldier.

            "I can teach you techniques of mobile suit piloting, and I can try to tell you how to promote those things within yourselves. But they are internal; I cannot put them into you. They must come from within you."

            He turned and walked towards the exit. "That is all for today. If, in the wake of what you have seen and felt today, you decide you do not want to become a part of Specials, no one will hold it against you. You can return to the regular Alliance military, where they don't care about the things I've discussed today. No one will be the wiser. For everyone else, briefing for the next sortie begins at 0555 tomorrow morning."

            And he left the room.

            Zechs spent the next hours carefully evaluating the tapes of every match to determine each pilot's individual strengths and weaknesses. He also continued his planning and preparation for the class deep into the night, wondering all the while how many pilots would still be around to receive instruction the next day.

            When he returned to his room after midnight, he was surprised to find an envelope half-beneath his door. He opened it as he entered his room. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It read, "We will stand by you."

            Beneath it were signatures. Zechs counted to be sure—yes, he was right. Each pilot had signed it, even Major Une.

            Zechs smiled. He continued to smile, even after he fell asleep.

            For the time being, at least, he was victorious.


	2. Training All Around

            Zechs's life began to become routine. A wake up call at "O-dark-early", then some self-maintenance, followed by preparatory work for the class's activities. Then, for twelve hours minus breaks and meals, he drilled, instructed, and corrected his students and himself. Another three hours, minimum, went to evaluating the day's performances, though this activity often expanded to fill the time given. From there he would then go to Treize's office, and the two would talk and talk and talk. Whenever Zechs managed to get away, he would return to his quarters and steal maybe four hours of sleep—usually less. Then it was back to the grind. On the weekends, he indulged in six hours of sleep per night; he spent the rest of his time preparing for the following week and filing his paperwork. That last task, at least, was mitigated by Treize's able secretaries, but anything that dealt directly with the performance of individual pilots he had to do himself.

            His nightly discussions with Treize covered a whole range of topics. Treize usually began by asking for Zechs' impressions and decisions regarding his class. The first night, Zechs had pointed out that he did send formal reports to Treize every day, but Treize dismissed that out of hand. "I want to hear from your mouth, my friend," was his whole explanation.

            After that, Treize would tell him about certain incidents or specific policies the Alliance had, or about problems that had come up somewhere, or about current events. The two would then batter ideas back and forth, hacking through the information to find the meaning, choosing courses of action or rules of engagement, and generally deciding how to run OZ now and in the future.

            Whenever the two of them decided on anything, however, Treize would give Zechs no ideas or clues as to how it would be implemented. Usually he simply said something like "Let me handle that" or "You shouldn't worry about such things." Zechs voiced to Treize how this bothered him.

            Treize had smiled. "I do need your help, but yours is the most important job in OZ, and I want your focus on it. If you get bogged down in the details of the outside world, who will teach Lady Une and her class?"

            "It seems to me," Zechs had answered, "that I'm not as much an advisor as a sort of secrets-keeper. At first I was confused, because most of the time we spend doing this is you explaining situations, and the solutions we derive are almost totally your input."

            "Don't be so modest, Zechs," Treize had said.

            "My point," said Zechs, plowing on, "is that my true function is as the person whom you can talk to. With everyone else, you are too busy being the commander, being the person of absolute certainty and confidence. But in these sessions, you voice doubts and fears it would be unsafe to speak elsewhere."

            "I told you that I needed a friend," said Treize. "This is hard work. However, I'm quite happy I have you as a—how did you put it? A secrets-keeper."

            Treize had then shifted the subject back to the implications of the Alliance's no-communications policy amongst the colonies.

            The first pilots of OZ were disturbingly fanatical in their studies. They had some bad habits from their Alliance days, as Zechs had expected, and at first all he could do with them were basic maneuvering skills. However, they never talked back to him, never showed any sign of rebellion—apart from Major Une's ongoing demand for explanations, of course—and all of them, Major Une included, poured all of their effort into learning everything Zechs had to teach them. This only increased the pressure on Zechs to stay two steps ahead of them.

            Zechs mentioned their determination to Treize during one of their discussions.

            "You speak almost as if you disapprove," Treize said. "It's easier on you this way, isn't it?"

            "As opposed to teaching unmotivated students, yes," Zechs said, "but it isn't representative. No future class will be so willing, and my instruction time will necessarily suffer since I'll have to give some of their time over to indoctrination into OZ."

            Treize nodded sympathetically. "And you fear not having enough time with your students."

            "Since we are, after all, training them for war," Zechs said, "insufficient training leads directly to unnecessary casualties."

            Treize had grown more solemn than usual at the thought. He remained silent for several seconds. "I appreciate what you're saying, Zechs," he said at last. "Still, there are only a few ways for us to compensate for that fact."

            "Harder work on my part is one, no doubt," said Zechs wryly.

            "Work much harder and you won't last," said Treize. "I've noticed how much time you've had to spend correcting bad habits the pilots have learned from their original teachers."

            "Yes, sir."

            "We need a way to get to soldiers before those bad habits are first taught to them. Specials needs to expand—we need to get to prospective pilots in the original stages of their training."

            Zechs glanced down, then looked back at Treize. "The military academies, you mean."

            "Exactly."

            "If we had to choose one, I would say Lake Victoria," said Zechs.

            Treize smiled. "Some pride in your alma mater, Zechs?"

            "It's not that," said Zechs, unsurprised that Treize knew of his background. "I selected Lake Victoria because I knew its reputation. It's the premier academy for soldiers wishing to become mobile suit pilots, and a lot of mobile suit training is done there. It's a primary training ground, and also a place for advanced studies in mobile suit combat. Further, it's a favorite of the European nobility."

            "All things which make it the perfect recruiting ground," said Treize.

            Zechs nodded. "If we could get some people in there." He tried not to face Treize. "I… sir, this is one mission which I wish very much to participate in."

            "Is that so?" said Treize. "Very well. Since we won't have you available for this mission until this class is done… yes, I know the perfect way to handle this."

            "Sir?"

            "Zechs, we will discuss this at another time. Rest assured, you will participate."

            And a bewildered Zechs left the room.

            "Come on, take your time!"

            Zechs shook his head. "Assault squad, the enemy isn't going anywhere! Manage your attack carefully, you have all the time you need."

            Another day, another set of training exercises. In this one, a squad of five "assault" Leos was attempting to "destroy" an objective guarded by four "defense" Leos. Zechs wasn't participating in this exercise—it would've been too unfair—so he was, instead, observing. Of course, his frustrated comments went unheard by his students; his communicator was off. To lecture them in the midst of a battle was to look over their shoulders too much. They'd only grow dependent upon him that way, and independent operations was one of the things he was trying to teach.

            Still, it was maddening sometimes…

            As he watched, the attackers split off two of their number to flanking positions on the left, then another two to flanking positions on the right. Both flanks then closed to just within weapons range and opened up. The defenders had to take cover.

            Now the remaining attacker dashed forward, trying to make it to the objective before the defenders realized what was going on. Zechs watched as the defenders gathered three of their Leos and attacked one of the flanking outposts, catching the attackers at a temporary disadvantage. Even as that firefight resolved, though, the lone enemy attacker walked into the base, surprised and outfought the lone defending Leo, and destroyed the objective.

            Zechs shook his head. Another victory for the attackers. Since attacking was what he was training these pilots to do, there was some gratification to that, but could they really not apply what they'd learned to defense as well?

            "We've repeated this exercise many times today," Zechs said during a mass de-brief. "The attackers won seven engagements, with two victories for the defenders and one fluke draw." There were some chuckles at this statement; in that "fluke draw", the sole surviving attacker and the sole surviving defender had defeated each other simultaneously, leaving no functional mobile suits on either side. Although the attackers hadn't destroyed their objective, neither could the defenders any longer claim it to be defended, and Zechs had declared the exercise a draw.

            "Yet those defensive victories were due not to any great tactics," said Zechs sternly, quieting the chuckles, "but rather due to superior piloting and teamwork. Although such things are necessary and commendable, there remains a fundamental problem with the way in which you approached this exercise from the defensive point of view."

            He scanned the room, checking the reactions of his pilots. There was Major Une, staring intensely at the board as if she was trying to merge with it and so understand the lesson better. There was Otto, the Alliance pilot Zechs had personally brought into OZ. His gaze flickered back and forth between the board and Zechs, like he wasn't sure which was more important.

            "The problem lies with the philosophy at work," said Zechs. "An attacker who is willing to sacrifice can temporarily penetrate almost any defense. Since this is a destruction mission as opposed to a take-and-hold, this gives the attacker a natural advantage. The attacker only needs to penetrate the defense for a moment, and victory is his.

            "Defense under these circumstances is very problematic—an impenetrable point defense is virtually impossible to maintain."

            He paused again, waiting for someone to suggest a solution. Seconds passed without a pilot making a move. _Of course, if they knew what the solution was, we wouldn't be having this discussion._

            "You're piloting MOBILE suits," Zechs said. "If you're going to use your Leo for static defense, you might as well get a turret for a quarter of the cost. A mobile suit is a weapon of attack, and it should be used as such.

            "In this instance, the proper course for the defender would be to strike the attacker before the attacker can bring his force to bear upon the objective."

            Major Une's hand shot into the air. _And here I was thinking you'd approve of such aggressive tactics, _Zechs thought wryly_._

            "Lieutenant," she said, enunciating as sharply as ever, "the defender is at a numerical disadvantage in this scenario. If the defender abandons his defense of the objective, he will be faced with a 5-4 battle which he will lose, with the attacker then proceeding to destroy the objective. So why do you advocate such losing tactics?"

            "They are losing tactics only when misused," said Zechs, holding his voice steady in the face of her attack. "The reason is that, just as the defender is obligated to defend his objective, the attacker is obligated to destroy it. When the defender seizes the initiative, he forces upon the attacker the dilemma he had to deal with—that is, a split in concentration between completing his mission and destroying the enemy. At some point, the attacker must go for his objective and render himself vulnerable to the enemy's attack. When that happens, the defender has total advantage, and must be prepared to press it home. He can then destroy the enemy and save the objective without it ever coming under fire."

            He smiled. "You are correct in assessing that this doesn't always work—but the same is true of every tactic. In this case, however, you're improving your chances dramatically by taking the initiative and denying the enemy the chance to coordinate the devastating and efficient attacks we saw all day today. At the very least, you'll probably inflict more casualties this way.

            "Finally, not all objectives are static. Some can be moved. You reduce the risk to your objective when you keep the enemy far away from it. Even if you are defeated in the process, the time you buy may yet save your objective—VIPs can be evacuated, computers can be moved, and so forth. But that can only happen when the objective is not in the line of fire. By attacking, you keep the objective completely safe for a longer duration, thus giving them a fighting chance to save themselves."

            He looked directly at Major Une. "Does that satisfy you, Major?"

            "Quite, Lieutenant," she said icily.

_            I wonder… do you actually learn from these provocations you make? Well, I know who to put in charge of the defenders next time we do a drill like this. We'll see yet if you're smart enough to learn even while you make my life difficult._

            "Remember that there are tactical situations that we can't prepare you for. Circumstance and chance, terrain and your opponents… the number of variables possible in any given confrontation are impossible for us to teach you comprehensively. Our primary goal is to teach you sound, fundamental principles that you can then apply to any battle. And the bedrock rule of mobile suit combat is this: to use mobility and concentrated firepower to bring overwhelming strength against a single point in the enemy's force. Hit hard, keep hitting, keep moving. Be aggressive and relentless. If you abandon these principles, you are failing to use your machines to their full potential. Now," he said, changing the images on the screen, "in this next mission…"

            "Zechs, is something wrong?"

            Zechs abruptly pulled his hand down from his face, his posture stiffening. "No, sir."

            "Please be honest with me, Zechs," said Treize, his voice with just a tinge of disapproval.

            "It's nothing, sir," Zechs said, "I'm just tired, and I have another night exercise soon."

            As tiring as Zechs' schedule had been, things had only gotten worse since he'd begun shifting training missions to the nighttime. Even though these took the place of the normal daily exercises, he still had classes to teach them during the day. The net result was that his average sleep per weeknight had dropped still further.

            "Zechs," said Treize firmly, "I've monitored your habits. Three hours of sleep per night works for short periods of intense activity, but you need more—your activities are very intense, and will cover an extended period of time."

            Zechs felt as if his mask was compressing his skull. "Sir, if I back off, it's the students who will suffer."

            Treize stood. "Tell me the specifics of the mission for tonight."

            Zechs did as best he could, considering his sorry mental state.

            "Very well. Go to bed."

            "Sir, but…"

            "I must admit that after hearing so much about your students, I'm immensely interested in seeing their abilities firsthand. Please, allow me the pleasure—the privilege—of drilling your students tonight."

            Zechs sighed helplessly. _He knows exactly how to prevent me from saying no. In any event, of course, he could simply order me, as he is my commander. But he doesn't need to do that—that's what he's telling me._

            "Of course," said Zechs. "A fuller description of the mission is the top paper on my desk."

            "Thank you. Now please, go to sleep."

            "Yes, sir."

            He obeyed faithfully.

            From that point, Treize ran the unit's night missions at least once per week. Zechs privately wondered just how much sleep Treize himself was getting, but his superior was as opaque as ever. Zechs kept Treize very well informed, per his policy, but Treize gave Zechs no idea of his own schedule or activities. If not for their nightly discussions, Zechs might have begun to doubt that his superior actually existed.

            Yet Treize was obviously doing something, because every night there was always something new and important for the two of them to analyze.

            Each day was an eternity for Zechs, yet at the same time the days and nights blurred into each other, until he realized with a shock that his time was all but up.

            "Sir," said Zechs during the last week, "it turns out I won't have time to teach them about melee combat. Even so, I want them to realize the possible effectiveness of close combat so that they'll be motivated to learn and practice it themselves. So… I was wondering if you would mind helping me give them an exhibition."

            "You mean a battle between the two of us, using beam sabers?"

            "Yes, sir, that's it exactly."

            Treize laughed lightly. "I think you'll be disappointed."

            "Is that so, sir?" Zechs said, disappointed already.

            "Don't take it the wrong way, Zechs. What I mean is, you've spent the past two months intensely concentrating on mobile suit piloting, you've run constant exercises and you've honed your techniques. You've also gotten ever better at channeling your passion into your battles." Treize spread his hands wide. "I'm afraid I won't be much competition for you."

            "Even so, sir," said Zechs, "I would appreciate it very much."

            Treize stood. "Alright," he said, "but I get a handicap on you."

            "I'm sure you'll explain yourself, sir."

            "Of course. Here is what we'll do…"


	3. Exhibition

            All the pilots sat before Treize and Zechs; everyone, Treize and Zechs excepted, in their piloting uniforms. Zechs sat by Treize's side; Treize had the microphone. "I've been very impressed by all of you," he said. "Your performances have been exemplary and your skills are awe-inspiring. You have all improved by leaps and bounds since your arrival here. You are an elite class, and as such, you are now authorized to wear the new Specials uniform."

            He pointed to a display case. In it was the new uniform. In some respects it resembled the normal Alliance uniform, but there were differences—most noticeably, whereas normal Alliance uniforms were olive drab, the Specials uniform was a smart black with white pants.

            "This new uniform, of course, is to let you and the rest of the Earth-sphere know that you are a special breed of pilot. All of you have demonstrated sufficient skill to graduate from this school and become full-fledged members of the Special Mobile Suit Corps. We have a variety of possible assignments for you—some of you will be cycled back out to the main Alliance forces, and some of you will stay here and become instructors for the next class of pilots."

            He smiled. "However, you all still have one final test to undergo. This test will determine your class rankings, and give you the opportunity to show off all that you have learned."

            Treize paused for a good while. "I am delighted by the patience all of you have had—and I am further delighted that OZ has such talented individuals filling its ranks."

            That was it, then. The façade, for a while at least, was lifted; OZ could be open with itself now that Treize had allowed it.

            "Some of you will be going back undercover amongst the units of the Alliance, to await further instructions. To those soldiers, I wish the best of luck and the greatest patience. You, unfortunately, should abstain from wearing your new uniforms to avoid drawing attention to yourselves. Anticipate the day you'll get to show the world how strong you really are. To those of you who are to stay, you are the caretakers of the greatest mission of OZ: to inspire future classes to join our cause. You will stay on as junior instructors under your favorite soldier, Zechs Marquise." There was some cheering at this point, which caught Zechs totally by surprise. His mask failed to contain his whole reaction, but he contained himself rapidly before turning angry eyes on Treize. Treize somehow managed to smirk at Zechs without taking his eyes off the crowd.

            "But regardless of where you go from here, know that your time here has made you stronger. If your dedication and commitment has risen along with your piloting skills, there is nothing you cannot achieve. Now prepare for your final test, and good hunting!"

            The final test was a series of Leo-on-Leo engagements, with the pilots having to apply most every lesson Zechs had taught them during those two intense months. Not only the piloting techniques, but the mental and emotional preparation as well—all were in grand display.

            "They've improved so much," said Zechs, watching them. "It's hard to accept that I helped them improve like that… that I had anything to do with it."

            "I can say with some certainty," responded Treize, "that you did have something to do with it. You should be proud of your accomplishment."

            "I'll hesitate to take credit for this," said Zechs, shaking his head. "Wasn't it Socrates who said that humans start with all knowledge within them, and a teacher simply awakens it? That is how I feel—they all had the potential to be great pilots, they just needed to realize it." He paused for a moment, watching Amos defeat another pilot in dramatic fashion. "And you, sir? How do you feel?"

            "I feel paradoxical," said Treize, sipping small amounts of wine.

            "How so?" asked Zechs.

            "It's true that the improvements to their abilities give their fights a kind of beauty. Such a great expression of skill is itself beautiful," he said, setting his glass down. "Yet that only appeals to me abstractly. These battles don't have the same kind of emotional affectations that real battles lend."

            "What do you mean?"

            "The most beautiful thing in the Earth sphere is a soldier with no fear of death in his heart, who can confront his own death directly and come to terms with it. This only truly occurs in a real battle, when death is staring the soldier in the face. These simulations bring out some of that feeling, but in the end no one can fool themselves completely. No matter how immersed in the exercise a soldier becomes, he can never shed the knowledge that it is just a game; he can't die. So the deepest feelings aroused by battle fail to surface, and I watch these matches with a puzzling detachment." Treize dipped a finger in his wine, then brought the finger to his mouth and drank the wine from his finger.

            Zechs turned his attention back to one of the current matches, then let out the slightest of sighs.

            "Was that Otto?"

            Zechs grimaced. He'd brought Otto with him when he'd joined OZ, and Otto was always eager to look at Zechs as a mentor. "Yes, sir, Otto just lost his match, 3 to 1. To your Major Une, no less." To have his protégé lose to Treize's pet viper was doubly bitter.

            Zechs stood. "Will you be ready for our match, sir?"

            "I wouldn't disappoint you, my friend. I'll be there."

            "In that case, I need to go prep for my first match. With your permission…"

            From inside his Leo, Zechs watched several monitors as they displayed the last few matches as they occurred. After the overall class winner panned out, that winner would fight against Zechs. It was mostly a symbolic battle, but it was also entertaining to everyone involved. Also, it would be a good way to show how much the winner had improved since the embarrassing evaluations at the beginning of the training.

            Of course, Zechs had no intention of going at anything less than full strength against whoever the winner might be.

            The last match resolved, and Zechs groaned. "This can't be right. It's just too ironic."

            The winning Leo tromped to face Zechs in his arena, and its pilot was Major Une.

_            I have to graduate HER at the top of her class. Treize won't stop smiling for weeks to come._

            A refereeing voice came over both their comm. systems. "Let the student-versus-instructor match begin!"

            Zechs watched her carefully as she raised her weapon and fired her first shot. He knew before she fired that the shot would miss him on the right, but as he watched, he could see her tracking towards him, sweeping bullets ever closer to him.

            Zechs almost subconsciously checked the terrain layout and saw that, if he simply tried to dodge away from the bullets, he'd end up pinned against a wall. _In that case…_

            He moved slowly to his left, encouraging her to sweep her fire towards him faster, then in-between her bursts of fire he hit his thrusters and dodged through her firing arc. She fired instinctively, of course, but missed, and Zechs returned fire as soon as his Leo was stable.

            Blank bullets impacted with her Leo, exploding in a cloud of chalk.

            "Halt!" shouted the announcer. "Point: instructor. 1-0. Pilots ready? Begin."

            This time Zechs fired immediately even as he fired his thrusters to maneuver. Major Une responded in kind, dodging instantly while firing back. Both their shots went wide, but neither stopped to settle down; Zechs continued to maneuver and fire simultaneously, forcing Major Une to keep moving. At the same time, her fire was close enough to force Zechs to maneuver to avoid it.

            The two danced, dodging and twisting while keeping enough fire in the opponent's direction to keep them moving. It was a question of endurance. How long could they keep up an accurate enough fire to be threatening while still keeping out of the enemy's line of fire? The loser would be the first one to make a serious mistake, the first to loose a round of gunfire inaccurate enough to allow the enemy to settle down and fire precisely.

            Zechs was enjoying himself. It wasn't that tossing around inside a crazily maneuvering mobile suit was fun—though it was, despite the bruises—but the fun was in pushing Major Une as far as she could go. Zechs had enough of a skill and speed advantage to overpower her if he wanted to, but it was much more rewarding to press Une until she was piloting better than she'd thought possible.

            Blank bullets impacted constantly against the walls of the arena until it was a challenge to determine which places had not been hit by stray fire. And still Major Une stayed in the game! _Much as I dislike her, and much as she distrusts me, the truth is she has improved enormously; she has all the skills. I don't know how much combat she'll see as Treize's agent, but if she ever does have to fight I believe she'll acquit herself well._

            Zechs picked up a growing impatience in his opponent's movements. Zechs considered whether or not Major Une could tell that he was purposefully keeping the battle even. Either way, she was pressing much harder now, firing more often and more wildly in the vain hope of forcing a hit through sheer willpower.

            "Stay calm," Zechs admonished her, though of course she couldn't hear. "Take your time, keep your balance, don't let the suit control you. Oh, Major, don't take your frustration out on your controls!"

            It was in vain. After several more seconds of increasingly desperate piloting, Major Une landed wrongly; her shot was way off-target. Zechs planted his Leo's feet and took aim.

            To her credit, she recognized her mistake instantly and went full evasive. But no one ever escaped when Zechs was firing with full accuracy. She managed to keep away from him for over five seconds, but his bullets caught her eventually.

            "Halt!" cried the mediator. "Point: instructor. 2-0."

            Zechs fiddled with his comm. circuits and sent a message directly to Major Une. "You've impressed me. In the first round you showed me that you're thinking during your fights, that you understand how to use your head to defeat your opponent. In the second, you demonstrated sound fundamentals and strong mechanics."

            Her tone revealed she was not happy. "So you say after taking a two-to-zero lead! Don't mock me, lieutenant!"

            "On the contrary," he responded, "I am honored to fight with you. It's clear that you earned your spot at the top of your class." _Now_, Zechs thought, _only one more thing to test you on_. He signaled the all-clear to the mediator.

            "Pilots ready? Begin!"

            Zechs was moving on the 'b' of "begin". He closed the distance to Major Une so rapidly she could only get off a few shots to defend herself, and at that speed even minor evasive maneuvers on Zechs' part kept him safe.

_            Your final test is: how do you react to the unexpected?_

            She fired again at point-blank range. Zechs ducked his Leo under the shot, then planted his Leo's shoulder into Major Une's Leo.

            Metal screamed as Zechs crashed into Major Une. Inertia tossed both pilots against their straps. Somehow both pilots managed to keep their suits upright, struggling with the many tons of titanium and steel that wanted so desperately to return to the Earth.

            Major Une tried to bring her gun to bear on Zechs, but he used his own to knock both the gun and Une's Leo's right hand off to the side.

            Major Une brought her Leo back a step, then lashed out with her left hand. Pride swelled in Zechs' chest. _I may not have taught you that, specifically, but you've learned all that I could teach you._ Even as he thought this, he used his Leo's thrusters to make a short jump backwards, barely ahead of the incoming punch. As soon as he landed, his gun snapped up. Although Major Une was trying the same, Zechs was just a touch faster; his shot hit home the slightest bit before Major Une could fire back.

            "Halt! Point: instructor. 3-0. Instructor wins."

            Zechs undid his straps, then hit the toggle that opened the Leo's cockpit. He stepped out into the sunlight and saluted the immobile Leo opposite him. After several seconds, Major Une appeared in the corresponding position on her Leo, but refused to return his salute. Zechs had his comm. open, and spoke to her, "If this is how strong you are after several matches, I have nothing but the utmost respect for your skills."

            "I thought I told you not to insult me," she snarled. "Perfect proficiency is what we must demand of ourselves if we are to serve OZ properly. The fact that you beat me so easily reveals that I am sorely lacking, regardless of what you say. Complimenting me serves only to boost your ego. Stop it!"

            She turned from him and reentered her Leo. As she tromped off, she shot back at him, "Compliment me only when I've done something truly worthwhile. Anything else is just a waste."

            Zechs gave a sigh of disappointment. _I'm glad she's on our side. She's so dangerous._

            "Are you ready yet, Zechs?"

            It was Treize's voice over the comm. Zechs reentered his cockpit. "One more moment, sir."

            "Very well. I'm entering the arena now."

            Zechs turned his attention to the Leo entering the arena and once again marveled at Treize's skill. The Leo was moving smoothly, naturally—with a kind of beauty.

            Zechs knew that this battle would demand everything out of him—and at the same time, he knew that he didn't have all his faculties. He'd spent a lot of focus and strength on dispatching Major Une, meaning he was lacking some for this battle with Treize.

            That was the handicap they'd agreed upon—due to Zechs being much more in-practice than Treize, Treize got to fight a Zechs who was at less than full power.

            _But_, Zechs reflected, _it will be so much fun!_

            He turned to the control tower and attuned his comm. to the general circuit. "I regret that I didn't have time to teach you more about melee combat," he said. "It's unfortunate, because the power of melee combat is so much more than the Alliance will admit. If you hit a Leo with a spray of fire, you may or may not take him out of the battle. Hit him with a beam saber, and he's done."

            Zechs cast aside his Leo's rifle. "To give you an idea of the power of melee combat, I will now engage Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada with nothing but my beam saber."

_            Besides, random chance plays a much larger role in ranged combats. When you take a beam saber into a battle against another pilot, a pilot's strength—and only the pilot's strength—will lead to victory._

            Treize fired a few symbolic shots with his rifle, then dropped it and went for his beam saber. As soon as he began moving, saber in hand, Zechs charged.

            As Zechs had come to expect, even in such a clumsy machine as a Leo Treize's movements were smooth, almost hypnotic. But Zechs had such concentration that he was able to focus on minutiae in Treize's motions, and so determine where he was going.

            When they were almost within striking range, Zechs pulled his charge up short and swung down-left. He knew he wasn't yet in range—the swing was a feint. Without waiting, he took another step with his left foot, pulled up close to Treize, and swung back up in the opposite direction.

            Treize saw it coming!

            He'd seen the initial strike was too short, and he'd sent a straight attack at Zech's chest. Zechs had no choice; he changed his up-right swing from a slash to a parry. He was barely able to deflect Treize's attack, though by doing so he lost his own chance to strike.

            Treize's Leo was now perpendicular to Zechs, and neither of their sabers were in position. Treize fired his thrusters, seeking to slam his Leo's shoulder into Zechs and bull him over.

            Zechs was no longer there.

            Titanium groaned as Zechs forced it way beyond its design limits, carrying his machine to safety through sheer force of will. Both Leos stumbled as their pilots sought to regain balance.

            As soon as Zechs had both feet under him he extended the arm with the saber, keeping Treize at a safe distance. He circled slowly, looking for an opening. Treize kept his Leo shifting back and forth, ready instantly to attack or defend.

            _You said you're rusty, Treize? Not so far. Let's put you to the test._

            This time he attacked with a downwards swing. Treize parried it easily and made a swift riposte, aiming directly for the cockpit.

            _As if I'd fall for that!_

            Zechs continued the motion from Treize's parry and twirled his saber counterclockwise. This allowed him to finish with a counterparry that deflected Treize's attack. Zechs moved to counterattack, but Treize disengaged; with a blast of thrusters he leapt backwards in a tall arc.

            _You won't get away!_

            Zechs rushed after Treize along the ground. He wouldn't give Treize a chance to recover, maneuver or get away. As soon as his foe landed, Zechs would strike and finish him. _There!_

            Treize landed, using a controlled thruster burst to cushion the impact. His saber wasn't in position; it was behind the Leo's body. Zechs smiled—this was it! He continued his charge directly at Treize, and boosted it with a strong thruster burst. Every bit of speed the Leo was capable of Zechs was using. He was moving like lightning—victory was imminent.

            _Wait! Wait!_

            There was no way Treize was that rusty. That arm was behind him intentionally. Treize was preparing a parry, the perfect parry—a parry that would leave Zechs totally exposed, since Zechs was throwing so much energy into this one attack.

            _But, if I can see where it's coming from… I might could… it's possible._

            Zechs lashed out with his saber, aiming for his foe's heart.

            _Now!_

            With blinding speed Treize swung his saber. The blow came over his shoulder and down, adding the force of gravity to the full strength of the Leo. Treize's parry connected with Zechs' attack and blew it away. Had that been Zechs' only attack, Treize certainly would have won. But Zechs had, at the last, seen the parry coming, and so it played into his hands.

            Zechs had planted his right foot to launch his thrust. Now that foot served as the axis for a pirouette. Zechs accepted the power of Treize's parry and made it his own. Zechs took all the momentum of his run, the strength stolen from Treize's parry, and another burst of his thrusters, and spun around completely.

            As he came around again, he launched a second attack with all the power and fury he and the Leo could muster.

            The g-forces were intense; they squeezed out the war-cry Zechs had meant to shout and nearly knocked him unconscious. But they had no effect on his attack. Zechs transferred every scrap of energy into it and slashed.

            Treize was no fool. As soon as he felt Zechs give way he'd recognized his subordinate's technique. There was no time for a counter-strike, so he hurried to get a second parry into place.

            The two blades of energy met, crackled, screeched. Zechs' blade forced Treize's back, its tremendous power coming through.

            Treize's parry had been a good one, but compared to the strength in this attack, it was worthless. First Treize's saber, and then his entire Leo were knocked aside by the blow. There was no ambiguity; Treize's mobile suit was finished, but good. If the sabers had possessed any cutting power at all, his Leo would have been in pieces; because this was an exercise, Treize was simply on the ground.

            Zechs finally inhaled, gasping in air to relieve the tension in his chest. He ignored the sweat gushing from every pore, ignored the proclamation of the announcer and the cheers from the gallery. He simply breathed, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. As he stopped hyperventilating, a bare smile flickered across his face.

            Once he'd recovered, he again toggled the switch to open the cockpit, stepped out, and saluted Treize. Treize had reactivated his Leo and stood it up, allowing him to face Zechs at an equal footing. He then exited the Leo and returned Zechs' salute.

            "Congratulations, and well-done," said Treize over the comm.

            "Thank you, sir," said Zechs. "It was a bare thing."

            "Second place counts for nothing in war. You should know that."

            Zechs smiled wryly. "Are you going to make my victory bittersweet too, sir?"

            "Certainly not," said Treize. "You just vindicated my faith in you. You've just proven, again, why I was right in choosing you as my knight. Your skills are continuing to increase. I am very thankful to have you as an ally and friend, and I am certain your students are thankful to have you as their instructor."

            Treize then turned his attention to the gallery. Major Une had strong-armed the other pilots, and now all were standing and saluting their commander. Treize switched to his Leo's loudspeaker and addressed them. "This is but a demonstration of the power of melee combat. Its real purpose is to show you the potential of melee so that you will pursue it on your own. Only by practice and refinement can we realize our ideals. I have faith that all of you will remain dedicated to our cause, and that inspires me. Glory to OZ! You are dismissed."

            Then, over a private channel, Treize said, "Meet with me afterwards, Zechs."

            "Yes, sir," said Zechs.


	4. Going After Victoria

            Treize and Zechs had departed from different hangars. This was part of the reason Zechs arrived at Treize's office almost an hour after Treize did. It seemed that everywhere Zechs went, his pilots had gotten there first and were begging him to celebrate with them. All expressed desperation for his presence, and many promised him copious amounts of alcohol.

            _Treize's instruction gives me a good excuse to avoid participation. I don't have the luxury of celebrating in that particular manner, but I'm glad that they're happy. I've driven them hard over the past two months; they definitely deserve to celebrate._

            He arrived at Treize's office, took a moment to straighten himself, and entered.

            He was both surprised and unsurprised to see Major Une already there, poring over some papers. _I almost forgot. Of course I didn't see her celebrating with the others; serving Treize is how she celebrates._

            "Sir, First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise, reporting as ordered."

            "By all means, Zechs, please enter," said Treize. By his tone and word choice, Zechs knew that this was to be an informal occasion. He scanned the spacious office and spotted Treize facing away from him. As Zechs approached, he saw Treize was pouring wine—some unpronounceable vintage; Zechs had some knowledge of etiquette, but was out of practice—into a pair of glasses.

            Treize turned and handed one glass to Zechs. "To our first real success," he said.

            "To small victories," Zechs answered.

            "Cheers."

            They both sipped their wine, and then simply stood there. The two of them, the lieutenant colonel and the lieutenant, allies and friends, shared the moment of victory. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours—there was no talking between them, for there was no need. There was nothing more or less than an air of satisfaction, supporting and succoring them.

            And both enjoyed every moment of it.

            Treize finally turned to Major Une. "Lady Une," he said, breaking the silence at last, "you may leave for the night."

            "Sir?" she asked.

            "We'll be very busy soon enough. Please get some rest."

            Major Une glared suspiciously at Zechs, then obeyed.

            After the door had closed again, Treize spoke. "We need to discuss the future, Zechs."

            "Can you be more specific, sir?" Zechs said with a half-smile. Though these conversations were informal, Zechs still dropped a 'sir' here or there out of respect.

            "Naturally. As we work towards the day we overthrow the Alliance, the question for me is where best to use your talents."

            "You mean you've found more work for me?"

            "Yes."

            "Well," enumerated Zechs, "you want me here of course, and we spoke before of co-opting one or more military academies. What are the others?"

            "The third task is to train our all-OZ units, and the fourth is to command a small task force capable of responding to anything."

            "All-OZ units?" Zechs asked. "But none exist."

            Treize settled back in his chair. "In this case, to talk about the future, we must talk about the past. A little more than twenty years ago, the Alliance was suffering an identity crisis. Although it had kept the peace for decades, it had done so by maintaining a practical monopoly on military power. While the rising nobles had small private armies, even collectively they could not stand against the Alliance. But this was acceptable, for the nobles had decided that it was in their best interest for the Alliance to remain intact. For these reasons, both the nobles and the Alliance were faced with a dire threat in the form of the pacifist, Heero Yuy."

            "Heero Yuy?" said Zechs. "You mean the leader of the colonies, who preached pacifism and unity. But he was assassinated in AC 175, am I right?"

            Treize nodded. "What you probably didn't know was that OZ was behind that assassination."

            "What?!"

            "They had two reasons for this," Treize continued evenly. "The first is that Heero Yuy was deluded. The will to fight is an integral part of our humanity. Heero Yuy proclaimed that mankind could overcome its own will to fight. But that brand of pacifism is a phantom, fleeting and ephemeral. By denying that will, by saying that it could be ignored, Yuy was disrupting the natural human condition. In effect, he was causing the colonists' will to fight to stock up, fester, aggravate, and worsen. Had he been left alive, the colonists would eventually have unleashed the most terrible war imaginable. But, if warrior virtues are cultivated and wars confined to small groups of people, which populations can appreciate and mourn collectively, they can project their wills to fight into a small number of truly noble champions. Thus the horrors of war are held at bay, even as the human will to fight finds expression."

            Zechs nodded. _There's only one flaw in your analysis, Treize. You weren't the leader of OZ at that point in time, so I doubt your philosophy was foremost in Romefeller's eyes._

            "Sir, the other reason?" Zechs asked.

            Treize smiled wryly. "The other reason, I'm afraid, is more cynical. When the nobility re-emerged as the leading politicians of the world, they were responsible for portions of their countries' military contributions to the Alliance. In most cases, the nobles tithed a portion of their own forces for this purpose. Obviously, those soldiers' first loyalties were to the lords that sent them."

            "Obviously," said Zechs. "Since they were joining the Alliance only because of their lords' commands, they had no loyalty to the Alliance itself—only their lords."

            Treize nodded. "And so the lords had agents throughout the Alliance. When the nobility united under the banner of the Romefeller Foundation, they united their various agents under a single banner as well—and so, OZ was born.

            "The nobility thus resolved to use OZ as a means to control the actions of the Alliance," he continued. "But Heero Yuy's pacifism threatened the continued existence of the Alliance—and, therefore, OZ. Left unchecked, Yuy's rhetoric would have dismantled the Alliance. Subsequently, the resurgent will to fight would have caused a greater war, and subsequently undone whatever proto-state arrangement Yuy was planning to replace the Alliance. And from there, who knows?"

            Zechs nodded, putting the puzzle together. "So Romefeller used OZ to kill Yuy out of self-preservation. It had to keep the Alliance intact, and it had to protect itself from an unpredictable future. If Yuy had lived and the Alliance been dismantled, it would have taken much of the nobles' power with it. Control of the future would be out of Romefeller's hands."

            "And there's more," Treize continued. "In the wake of Heero Yuy's assassination, the Alliance felt a sudden, desperate need for military power. The Alliance increased its own production, but also stepped up its demands on its member nations for tithed troops. Thus, more and more agents of OZ infiltrated the Alliance as more and more personnel came from the nobility."

            "But they were just independent agents, correct?" said Zechs. "From what I've seen of Alliance personnel policies, they split up troops who come from the same country in order to prevent collusion. OZ had no ideology then, did it?"

            "OZ didn't know it needed an ideology," said Treize, who clearly found that amusing. "It was as you say—a scattering of independent agents, operating only when they received instructions from the lord who sent them. Romefeller had seen these agents as simply a means to acquire additional power. It fell to me to present OZ with a greater purpose. I've had much to remedy, and uniting all of OZ under a single command structure with me at its head is just the beginning."

            He trailed off, and stared past Zechs at something far distant. "Something bothering you, sir?" asked Zechs.

            Treize closed his eyes. "The Alliance never completed its investigation of Yuy's assassination. After some fruitless searching, they closed the files and declared that he was murdered by "persons unknown". However, this was only because of our intervention. There was some evidence we failed to remove in a timely fashion. In other words, it is possible that someone with sufficient motivation and connections could connect OZ with the killing. At least, if they looked before we erased everything."

            Now Treize opened his eyes and shook his head. "I know that Yuy had to go. But there must have been a better way to do it—if nothing else, the cover-up could have been executed better. The point is that I believe making an enemy of the colonies is a mistake. And we may have already done that."

            He smiled tightly. "But enough of that matter. Here is where we stand. My connections with the Alliance via Romefeller are currently negotiating a new system. The goal is for the units sent in by the Foundation's members to remain intact. In fact, the plan is to fold such units under the Specials banner. This is contingent upon those units being upper-tier elites, naturally. This is why they need your training. If they get proper training, then we gain a huge advantage in our quest towards overthrowing the Alliance."

            Zechs nodded in acknowledgement. "Our plan requires subversive persons within every Alliance unit, who strike simultaneously to cripple the Alliance and prevent coordination. It also requires all-OZ units to then sweep from place to place, defeating local Alliance troops as they move. The members of OZ already in the Alliance, plus those we send from this school and the military academies, are the first element. The complete units donated by Romefeller are the second element."

            "Quite correct." Treize stood. "So, this is our dilemma. All these troops need training, and there's only one of you. Plus, I want you as leader of a roving task force, to act as the first responder in the event of crises."  
            Zechs nodded, his brain working. "What we can do is use this base as the place to instruct the instructors. From this base, we get the personnel necessary to take over the training here. Then the leaders they produce take over the training of the all-OZ units."

            "And the military academies?"

            "Those instructors can come from here, too," Zechs said. "However… well, Lake Victoria at the least won't be a problem."

            "Why is that?" said Treize, his voice curious. "You said before that you wished to be a part of the mission to Lake Victoria. Is there something I should know?"

            Zechs hesitated, trying to figure out how to say it. "I have a… friend there. Her thoughts, feelings, and methods are close to ours, but the Alliance is no doubt stifling her. To gain a presence at Lake Victoria, all we need to do is establish the Specials' right to train there, and then make her the primary instructor of pilots. Surround her with auxiliary personnel from this base and she'll handle the piloting and political instruction."

            "Intriguing," said Treize. "I look forward to meeting this woman, if you decide to introduce us. You don't need to tell me any more than you feel comfortable revealing, of course." He closed his eyes. "I'll entrust this matter to you, to handle as you see fit. I will get your foot in the door, so to speak, and aid you if you request it, but the rest is up to you."

            "Thank you, sir," said Zechs, sighing in relief. _After all, how exactly would I explain Lucrezia? Well, at least now I have some time to figure out how._

            Treize moved behind his desk and sat down. "Once you have accomplished that, you can spot-check the training sessions. Your primary duty, however, will be to respond quickly to any special events or problems and solve them, swiftly."

            Zechs waved his hand with a slight smile. "Sir, I can only plan for so many things in advance. If you can determine our overall goals, I'll focus on achieving them individually."

            "I can see I've tired you," said Treize. "Very well, that will be all for tonight. Rest soundly, for we'll soon begin our push to co-opt Lake Victoria."

            "Yes, sir."

            Zechs returned to his room and turned off his alarm.

            That was his way of celebrating.

            _What can you possibly be planning, Treize?_

            Zechs stood with his back towards a wall, drifting around the fringes of the clumps of people in the room. Scattered throughout was a dizzying array of dress uniforms. The majority were standard Alliance dress uniforms, but certain territories had their own unique uniforms, and certain commands had their own. Zechs was holding his own in identifying who was who, but it was a struggle.

            _This is no coincidence. The Alliance doesn't have very many social events for its top brass. You timed this very carefully, Treize—to finish my class just in time for us to attend this party. What is going through your head?_

            Treize was in his element. There he was, moving effortlessly from conversation to conversation, at home in this environment. But Zechs noticed that officers' eyes followed him wherever he went.

            Zechs looked distastefully at the drink in his cup. _I have this for appearances,_ he thought, _but I dare not drink it. I'm a mouse in a snake pit. I must be both quiet and careful… especially if HE is here._

            Zechs hadn't seen him yet, but that didn't mean he wasn't here.

            Zechs' scans of the room were interrupted by loud bellows of laughter. His wasn't the only attention drawn; everywhere conversations were dying out and people were looking towards one particular discussion.

            "Well, well! After one successful class, Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada thinks he has done something great!"

            "Not great, per se," said Treize. Though his voice didn't seem any louder, it was carrying to everywhere in the room. "Just better than what we have now."

            "And so…" the person he was addressing tried to choke down laughter, "and so you believe you are better qualified to handle instruction of mobile suit pilots?"

            "My unit, the Specials, is," said Treize. "But I am not unreasonable. I don't wish to claim all the pilot instruction—just a portion of it, until Specials grows enough to incorporate the rest of the training sites."

            There were titters all around. By now Zechs had finally worked his way close to the conversation and fell into a position behind and to the side of Treize. Treize was speaking to a man Zechs identified as General Compton, the man in charge of training Alliance personnel. "That's rather pompous of you, Lieutenant Colonel. Training mobile suit pilots is an exhausting endeavor—it requires large numbers of exemplary personnel, excellent facilities, and already-developed techniques. You have none of these!"

            "On the contrary," Treize countered. "We've already developed the methods over the past few months, and I will vouch for our personnel. As for facilities…" Treize's eyes gleamed. "I was considering your Lake Victoria base."

            Dead silence. "This just stopped being funny," said Compton. "Do you mean to say that you wish to take over the training of mobile suit pilots at Lake Victoria—essentially ripping personnel, responsibilities, and facilities directly from me?"

            "Yes," said Treize, his voice level as ever, "on the grounds that I can do it better."

            "How do you know you can do it better?" Compton snarled.

            "Because the pilots that have resulted from my training are the best in the Alliance," Treize said.

            "How can you possibly make that assertion?!" Compton exploded.

            Treize smiled calmly, and Zechs got the sudden, strong impression Treize was about to do something mind-blowing. "How about we settle this with a gentlemanly wager?"

            Compton tightened his face and narrowed his eyes. "How do you mean?"

            "The only real, fair way to measure which of two pilots is better is for them to fight each other. To that end, I propose a series of engagements between your newest graduates and mine. I have just graduated a class. They haven't been sent to their new assignments yet, so they're available." Treize paused, in a way reiterating his smile. "You may, of course, choose pilots from Victoria's basic or advanced courses, at your discretion."

            "And so…" Compton began, but Treize kept going.

            "With your permission, we'll use the Lake Victoria facilities as the grounds on which to settle the bet. The wager is on victory in these engagements. There will be five engagements, the size of which is up for negotiation between our representatives."

            Compton gave a puzzled expression. "Our representatives? You mean you won't be fighting? I thought this was your profession."

            Treize bowed instantly. "My apologies for my presumptuousness, General. I would be delighted to face you in mobile suit combat."

            Compton blanched as the crowd around exploded in titters. "That won't be necessary, Colonel," he managed. Anyone who could read insignia could see that Compton was an infantryman by trade—Zechs could only imagine the struggles he would have in a mobile suit.

            "Very well," said Treize. "The size of the five engagements will be negotiated by our representatives," he repeated, getting back on track. "But I am totally confident in my troops. I will give you a five to three numerical advantage in every engagement."

            Zechs looked at Compton now, and could see him start calculating his odds. "Well…" Compton began.

            "There is one more condition," Treize half-interrupted.

            "What?" said Compton, clearly on-guard. He obviously expected Treize to demand something of him.

            "I say that my troops will win all five engagements. If you win even one, you win the entire wager."

            Compton's eyebrows shot up. "You are spotting me a five-to-three numbers advantage, and I only have to win once in five battles?"

            "That's correct," said Treize. "If I win, I want you to cede to me the mobile suit training facilities and responsibilities at the Lake Victoria Military Academy. That's both the advanced and basic schools. But, if you win, I'll disband the Specials immediately."

            It was as if a bomb had gone off. People dropped glasses, rocked back on their heels, exploded into chatter. Zechs struggled to bring his own reactions under control. _This is it. This is how he would "go after Victoria". Why does he never tell me these things?_

            Compton seemed to be in shock for several seconds, but he eventually cracked a huge smile and said, "I agree to your terms, Treize." Applause broke out from all quarters.

            "My subordinate, First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise, will contact you shortly." Treize bowed deeply, turned on his heels, and left. Zechs followed in his footsteps; the crowd behind murmured, growing louder as the distance between Compton and Treize increased.

            Treize and Zechs left the building altogether. They stood together on the porch outside. Treize addressed a nearby soldier, serving as both a guard and a chauffeur, "We have no further business here." The guard saluted and left.

            With no one else within hearing, Treize turned to Zechs. "So? What did you think? How was my little performance?"

            "Your performance was great, sir," he said.

            Treize smiled slightly. "It isn't my performance that bothers you," he said.

            _Not one of your greater perceptual leaps, Treize._ "No, sir. Are we really ready to put everything at risk? No sooner have we made our first modest gains then you're putting it all on the line."

            "Is there a better time?" said Treize. "After we've made more gains, shepherded our resources and entrenched ourselves? When we've grown so attached to the minimums of slow progress that we lack the ability to be truly daring?" He shook his head. "No. That's the Alliance's sickness, not mine. Now was the right time for this wager." He smiled. "You don't actually believe you'll lose, do you?"

            Zechs gave a hmph. "Sir, I may not approve of your recklessness, and I may strive for realistic assessments, but I do have some pride of my own. It will be difficult, but we will win this." His expression changed. "Actually, sir, there's also a good tactical reason for us to do it now. Compton has no basis on which to guess our actual abilities. He certainly hasn't seen what our soldiers can do, so he has a serious gap in his intelligence. Once this first class goes out and makes their names known, that advantage disappears."

            Zechs looked to Treize for confirmation, but Treize wore only a blank smile.

            "That never occurred to you, did it, sir?"

            "No, Zechs," said Treize, still smiling. "Though it is fortunate that it worked out that way, isn't it?"

            _Serendipity_, thought Zechs. _This should serve as a reminder for the overconfident, Treize. In world events, especially military events, the best-laid plans go awry. Sometimes, things just happen. Even to you. But as long as they're happening in our favor, I don't think you'll notice._

            Zechs released that line of thought and picked up his original again. "But honestly, sir, you did your best to stack the deck for him. You were making it impossible for him to refuse, weren't you?"

            Treize nodded. "As it stands, Zechs, the tools available to us to gain power are few. We have ourselves, we have money and equipment from Romefeller, we have a small selection of elite pilots and a number of deep-cover agents—but aside from Romefeller's contributions, those mean little in the halls of power. And I'd rather not call upon Romefeller more often than absolutely necessary, lest we grow indebted and dependent."

            "But there is one more thing," Zechs said, "and you spotted it. We have the vices of the Alliance leadership."

            Now it was the satisfied smile that crept onto Treize's face. "One of the more prevalent vices is a hatred for us, and all we stand for. Even the leadership of the Alliance originated as lower-ranking personnel. As incredible as it seems in an autocracy, they maintain the belief that everyone should be able to rise in rank. Aristocracy offends their sensibilities. They can't abide someone whom, they perceive, got their position without earning it."

            "And so you offer them what seems like a golden opportunity to destroy us," Zechs said, coming up with the rest. "You give them what look like very long odds on our survival and beg them to take the bet… which is easy, because they want to take the bet so badly."

            "Not 'them', generally," corrected Treize. "Just Compton. You see, the more important vice in the Alliance leadership is the same as in any large organization—internal competition for small numbers of positions. If Compton loses—when Compton loses—he loses more than Lake Victoria. He loses prestige and recognition amongst the other leaders, who will then force him to honor his agreement. If I had taken that bet up with him in private, he might have had a chance to get out of it. But in that setting, with the entire Alliance upper tier listening in, he can't escape. His peers will hold him to that agreement. We will get all that we asked for."

            "The end result is that Compton looks doubly incompetent—once for losing, and twice for taking the bet publicly and failing to make good," said Zechs. "So, if the other generals believe that it was merely Compton's incompetence that allowed us to win, we continue to avoid drawing close scrutiny from the other generals."

            "We continue to look harmless," said Treize, smiling at the irony. "We maintain our image of naïve schoolboys at play, and all the while we sink our claws into the Alliance's vitals."

            A car arrived, driven by a soldier Zechs remembered was from Specials. The driver got out of the car to open the doors, and bowed deeply in doing so.

            _Dead give-away,_ Zechs thought. "Don't do that," he said to the soldier as Treize entered the car.

            "What, sir?" asked the soldier.

            "Salute us next time." He got in next to Treize.

            "Yes, sir," said the soldier.

            "Good catch," said Treize, smiling slightly. "We want to be seen less as nobility and more as officers."

            "Vigilance is something I've learned to live with," said Zechs.

            Treize nodded appreciatively. "All the same… Zechs, you will eventually need some kind of title in order to command authority in OZ."

            Zechs glanced over, then away. _I dare not use the title I was born with. And if Treize has used his knowledge of my face to determine my identity, he knows that as well as I do._

            "That's your prerogative, sir," said Zechs.

            Treize smiled. "Very well, then," he said. "Bring me Lake Victoria, and you shall be no longer the Lightning Lieutenant, but the Lightning Baron."

            _The Lightning Baron… has a nice ring to it. I could live with that._

            "One more thing, Zechs," said Treize.

            "Sir?"

            "There is an ancient but wise toast, repeated by military men throughout the ages. I want you to memorize it and appreciate it." Treize turned those powerful eyes upon Zechs and began reciting.

            "_He either fears his fate too much _

_            Or his desserts are small_

_            Who dares not put it to the touch_

_            To win or lose it all."_

            Zechs nodded slowly. "Profound, sir," he said without irony.

            "And when you've fully grasped that," Treize said, "you'll understand what I did tonight."


	5. Proof of Might

            Zechs allowed himself a tight smile of satisfaction. _Things are going roughly as planned._

            He sat in the control tower of the Lake Victoria base. From there, he was observing the series of engagements. The exercises were limited below what Compton's flunky had wanted—there had only been thirty graduates from Zechs' course, so that was the maximum size of the engagements allowable.

            The first two engagements—and Zechs truly had to question the intelligence of Captain Ross, his counterpart—had been simple five-on-three matches. Naturally, Zechs' pilots had come through twice in a row, losing one of their own each time but still winning handily.

            _Sure, the ratio of 5-3 is the same regardless of the total size of the engagement. Even so, 50-30 is a far rougher deal than a 5-3._

            Naturally, losing those two matches in that manner had a very detrimental effect on Ross' mental state.

            The third match was a fifteen-on-nine, and the fourth was 25-on-15. Once again, the Specials soldiers won decisively—they lost only two of their own in the third match, though many were hit once or twice. The fourth match had a scare in it for Zechs. The pilots had ordered themselves into squads so that they could execute small-unit tactics—they did so with alacrity and efficiency that gave Zechs a touch of pride. Unfortunately, there was a miscommunication somewhere, and one of the squads accidentally ran through the other squads' lines of fire.

            By the end of the match, the Specials had only seven pilots, less than half, still standing. Of course, Ross' troops were all cursing at their inoperative Leos. Even so, one of Zechs' pilots was going to catch some serious flack from his comrades over that one. There was no need for Zechs to personally discipline the pilot-- everyone had seen his screw-up. Humiliation before his peers would ensure he'd be more careful in the future.

            He looked over at Ross. The man was sweating heavily despite the air conditioning. "Sir?" said Zechs.

            Ross jerked his head in Zechs' direction. Zechs could tell that Ross was imagining Compton's wrath, and probably considering some sort of transfer. _It's unfortunate, Ross, that you have to pay for your boss' stupidity. Treize would probably sympathize, but absolve himself on the grounds that you chose the wrong boss. Either way, I don't feel enough pity to go easy on you. I have to make this extremely convincing to make Treize's job easier._

            He smiled. _And let's be honest. You ARE incompetent, and I don't want to reward that._

            "If you wish, we can postpone the final match until tomorrow," he said to Ross.

            The man nodded nervously, then more eagerly. "Certainly, Lieutenant, tomorrow is more than acceptable."

            "One more thing," said Zechs. "I'm curious. Did you simply get a bad crop of students, or is it a problem with your instructors? I'm willing to let you use some of your instructors in the final match." He bowed. "In kind, I would like to fight tomorrow myself."

            Ross nodded. "That seems fair. Do you wish to use all your pilots and Leos in the final match?"

            Zechs nodded. "Yes. I will field a force of thirty-one mobile suits, one of which will be myself. You can field… let's give you sixty, ten of which can be instructors."

            Ross' eyes popped wider. _That will make things more difficult on me,_ Zechs thought, _but not as much as you hope. I was simply trying to make it so you couldn't refuse me._

            "That's acceptable," Ross managed.

            "Very well," said Zechs. He bowed, and left. _This way, I should be able to make contact with her… and at the same time, make sure she hasn't slipped. It would be tremendously embarrassing if I had to tell Treize that I was wrong about her._ He smiled. _Besides, it's been a while._

            Zechs stood, as was his custom now, in his red dress uniform, looking out over his graduates again. They were in a ready room, and he was delivering a brief for the coming fight. "I'd like to congratulate everyone on your performances yesterday," he said. "I monitored you all from the control tower. I must say, you caused my counterpart in the Alliance a great deal of distress."

            Chuckles. Good, a semi-relaxed atmosphere—but now it was time to key them up again. They needed to be at their best.

            "But you all have to forget about everything that's happened so far, because this match is far-and-away the most difficult. We'll be outnumbered by a full two-to-one, and ten of their pilots will be instructors at Lake Victoria, the best they've got. At least one of those instructors is a top ace that worries me, and there might be more we don't know about."

            They didn't discuss this amongst themselves, like Zechs expected them to. Instead, they concentrated ever harder on Zechs, hanging on his words. _Better than I hoped. We'll be ready._

            "Although I expect the best from you always, if you've been saving anything over the past four fights now is the time to spend it. I have a plan that will let us win, but we'll need to be at the top of our skills to pull it off."

            Nods. _Alright, then._

            Zechs hit a button. On the monitor behind him appeared three lists. "I've separated the thirty of you up into ten-man squads. Squad leaders, feel free to organize sub-squads as you feel appropriate. Squad three in particular will need smaller units to make our plan work." More nods.

            "The agreement we have with the Alliance dictates that our units will line up in formation opposite theirs before the battle starts. Standard Alliance tactics in this case are for their four "inside" units to engage and hold us, while the two "outside" units do a double envelopment and hit us on both flanks. Well, we're not going to let them do that.

            "Squad two, at the start of the engagement you're to flow laterally to the right, then engage the flanking unit on the right and anyone else who wanders into your area. You have to keep squad one from getting flanked and cut off, that's your priority, and you should engage as many units as necessary to keep that from happening.

            "Squad one, you have the hardest job. You are to perform a fighting retreat as you move towards the right—but slower, much slower than squad two. Your job is to keep the main body of the enemy engaged." He paused, seeing the squad one pilots shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, this means that you will be fighting the bulk of the enemy force virtually unassisted. Remember these things! You don't have to defeat the enemy, that's not your job. Your job is simply to keep his attention. You are a glorified decoy, but you have to keep the enemy slowed down! Make him stop or walk to shoot, don't let him run. Make him maneuver and take cover. I want you to be putting out significant firepower at anyone who comes close. If the enemy doesn't take you seriously, pick a fight. You want to hold the attention of the enemy's main body. That means you're going to have to try and stay alive as much as possible, we need you to fight as long as you can—as long as it takes for squad three to get into position."

            He smiled as all eyes turned to him, waiting for him to say the fate of squad three.

            "Squad three is going to disconnect from the main body, disengage and maneuver to the far right, and hit the entire Alliance force in the flank and rear."

            The room dissolved into whispers and comments. "That means you can't dilly-dally!" he said, trying to regain control of the room. "This move has to be careful, because if the enemy sees it coming he'll react to it. But that's what squads one and two are for, to give you the time and cover necessary to get into position. What you absolutely cannot be is slow. Even with our superior average skill level, squads one and two will not last long outnumbered three-to-one. So move swiftly and quietly, then attack decisively."

            Now it was nods again, and Zechs could read the comprehension and anticipation in their eyes. "Squad two," he said, "your objective at first is to help squad one run interference, but once squad three has made its appearance, feel free to make attacks yourselves. This battle won't be neat and pretty; it can't be. I expect each of the squad commanders to react and adapt to the situation. This plan can work almost regardless of what the Alliance does, but it will need tweaking to do so, and that has to come from you. I selected you because of your superior situational awareness, and you'll need to use it."

            Nods from the squad commanders. "Myself, I will be floating between squads one and two, lending support as needed. Squad call-signs are Alpha, Beta, Gamma; my call-sign is Lightning. Is everyone clear on this? Any questions?"

            "Sir, you said you'll be out there?" said Otto.

            "Yes. In exchange for them fielding an additional ten Leos piloted by Lake Victoria's instructor corps, I will be on the field in a Leo myself."

            Zechs could almost see the confidence of the pilots rising. "Any other questions?"

            "Sir?"

            "Yes?"

            "How did you get the Alliance to give themselves such lousy odds?"

            Zechs smiled. "Credit all of that to the skill of Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada. Anything else? Alright, we deploy in one hour. Don't be late."

            Zechs felt the breath seep out of his body as g-forces smashed him into his command seat. Beneath him his Leo jumped backwards, sprays of fire sailing futilely below.

            _It's too fast. We're not resisting well enough. We can't let ourselves get pushed back into third squad._

            The Alliance forces were moving much faster than Zechs had anticipated. They were suffering casualties, yes, but at such a disadvantage Zechs' forces were also. Squad one had already lost two Leos, and many of the others had been hit once or twice.

            Zechs landed, then sprung forward again at a run. Blanks tore up the ground about him. He turned to face his assailants and fired several shots. They weren't the most accurate shots, but he still took down one Leo and sent the others scurrying about. But now reinforcements came up behind them, firing as they approached. Zechs returned their fire for a few seconds, then fled quickly as the air grew thick with rounds.

            With a few spare seconds he stole a look at the situation map. Squad three had turned off all transmissions to help them evade detection. Apparently, it was working; he had no idea where they were. Squad two had mauled the Alliance unit on the far right and was in a heated engagement with a second unit. However, the Alliance's four remaining units were converging on squad one with dangerous rapidity.

            A third member of squad one went down. "Alpha two," Zechs barked, "three to your left, look out!" Zechs threw his Leo into a jump, trying to get there before A-2 was overwhelmed.

            The poor pilot was reduced to constant maneuvering, trying to avoid the enemies closing in on him; he was too busy even to retreat. Now six pilots were firing at him…

            …And weren't moving themselves.

            Zechs fired at the three pilots farthest away from him, downing two and spooking the other before they figured out he was there. The three remaining Leos turned to engage him, but it was far too late.

            Zechs tossed aside his rifle and grabbed for his beam saber. As he landed, he swung down at the closest enemy Leo and incapacitated it. Its comrades turned to face him, but he hid behind the Leo he'd 'killed'.

            Now Alpha two helped Zechs out, firing at the two still-active Leos. The two Leos turned to face A-2 again, and when they did, Zechs zipped out from behind his impromptu cover.

            A slash to the down-left, and spin-slash to the right, and it was over.

            Zechs quickly stored his beam saber as A-2 mopped up the survivor. He grabbed a rifle from one of his victims. "Alpha two," he said. "Come with me. They've almost cut us off. We'll have to rush if we're to rejoin…" he trailed off. A contingent of Leos was moving between Zechs and the rest of Squads one and two. He would have to cut through them if he were to rejoin his comrades.

            No, that wouldn't work, there were too many… but what he could do was make himself a diversion, hurting the enemy along this side and slowing the pressure on his subordinates.

            "Alpha two, follow my lead!" he said. He fired at the closest enemies, the ones who'd cut him off. They began to maneuver, but he didn't stop to engage them; instead he ran away at an angle. Those enemies regrouped but didn't come after him. Zechs didn't care. He was already firing at and scattering another group behind them.

            He wouldn't get many kills this way, but that wasn't the point, was it?

            He glanced at the situation map. Squad two had accomplished its mission and gained an edge on the right, but new waves of enemies were pushing in on them and they were struggling to hold their position. Squad one was barely holding on; they'd taken fifty percent casualties and were in an almost-continuous state of fighting retreat. They were slowing the enemy very effectively, but they'd all but lost the ability to fight back.

            Where was squad three?

            A group of enemies was ignoring Zechs. He settled down and fired steady, accurate shots into them. Down went one Leo, then another… and that was all, as the remainder turned on Zechs and unloaded firepower at him. Alpha two claimed an enemy, but didn't maneuver fast enough; the wave of fire caught him and shut him down.

            _I know exactly what I need to do, but this Leo just isn't powerful enough to let me do it._

            Well, he'd annoyed them enough, it seemed. A section of five Leos was chasing him away, and even Zechs was not skilled enough to defeat all five enemies head-on.

            He danced backwards in his Leo, trying to space his enemies out. _If I can maneuver so they can't cover each other, I can pick them off one by one._ Still, it was taking all his effort just to avoid getting hit. _In any event, at least I'm drawing them away from the real battle._

            He made a mighty leap to the left; bullets flew uselessly beneath him. He tried to bring his rifle to bear, but he had to make an in-flight adjustment to avoid another round of fire from his foes. There! That was it; he'd made it around them. Now one of the enemy stood between Zechs and the rest. Zechs unloaded mercilessly into his prey, hitting the necessary three targets to shut it down.

            Although he killed it almost instantly, the enemy was now swarming to both sides of their fallen friend. Zechs retreated hastily to avoid a lethal crossfire, then dashed to the right. The enemies held their ground, choosing to shoot at Zechs instead of maneuver. Zechs' Leo shuddered as one of them connected, but with effort he pulled out of their lines of fire. Now he jumped back a tremendous distance.

            He allowed himself a tight smile—his eyes were as good as ever. He was still in range of two of the Leos, but the other two were just out. He took aim while continuing to maneuver. He hit one of the Leos twice and its partner thrice, shutting it down, even as their friends tromped into range again.

            The two Leos stayed to fight, but the damaged one fled… to where, Zechs certainly couldn't tell.

            _Now that I've evened the odds a little, I can do this the more traditional way… by simple virtue of the fact that I'm a better shot while on the move._

            He made liberal use of his thrusters as he steadily shot up one of the enemy. He was preparing to face the other when it suddenly turned tail and left, running at top speed back towards the main battle.

            "I'm not done with you!" Zechs shouted. He pushed his machine at top speed to chase down his foe, but their Leos were equal; he couldn't catch it.

            _But if I jump, maybe I won't have to catch it…_

            Zechs threw his Leo into a forward jump and took aim. He hadn't been in range from the ground, but with the extra elevation he could just make the shot. He took it.

            He only hit his target twice, but that was effectively enough; the enemy stopped to look behind it, and Zechs snapped him up as he hesitated.

            Only now did Zechs look at his situation map—and laughed out loud when he realized what had happened.

            Squad three had finally arrived.

            Squad one was all but destroyed, with only two pilots still moving. Squad two had taken over diversion duty and suffered also, down to four pilots active. But Squad three had pulled their rear attack off perfectly, inflicting major casualties. They'd lost two of their pilots already, but that was insignificant compared to the damage they were doing now.

            The Alliance attackers had thought victory was near, but suddenly a whole new group of suits had arrived in their rear. They'd taken severe casualties before they'd even figured out where the bullets were coming from, and they were only now recovering from the shock.

            Zechs gave a predator's smile. "Now is the time to win this battle."

            He ran at full throttle towards the enemy.

            The Alliance troops had somehow managed to re-orient themselves so that all the Specials troops were in front of them. All except Zechs, that was. And Zechs had a beam saber.

            Everything became a blur of brown paint and energy to Zechs as he tore into the Alliance lines. He knocked over mobile suits as if they were nothing, defeating them as quickly as he could get to them and swing. The few that noticed him never got good enough shots off; he simply dodged their panicked shots, rushed them, and killed them.

            Until he came to the one pilot who could resist his skill.

            He came to a spot in the line where there was only one Alliance Leo still standing, yet the Specials Leos were giving it a wide berth. Shells were pouring from its rifle. _Must be an instructor,_ thought Zechs. _Taking him out will make things easier._

            He fired his thrusters and swept up to it.

            Then it jumped over him.

            Zechs almost stumbled as the object of his attack suddenly disappeared over his head. He dodged instinctively, which was a good thing, as the pilot of that Leo had fired back along the same axis.

            Bullets shredded the ground where Zechs had stood. From his new position he quickly found his foe, still on its way to the ground. _This time I won't miss._ Zechs again ran forward at full throttle, then hit his thrusters for a linear boost straight at the target.

            The enemy just couldn't get its rifle up fast enough. This time Zechs connected—but the foe took the blow on its shield. Still, there was enough power in the strike to knock the enemy to the ground. Zechs reversed his grip to deliver the coup de grace…

            And found himself staring at the muzzle of the enemy's rifle.

            It was only by some miracle of reflexes that he escaped, jumping backwards as the bullets sheered paint from his Leo.

            _That pilot took very good aim while falling down! Plus she managed to take my saber attack on her shield, and she had superb situational awareness, dodging my initial attack without even facing me. Very few pilots have that much skill. It _must_ be her! But how to be sure?_

            He smiled. _Of course._

            He switched his communications over to tight-beam and sent a message directly to the enemy Leo. "How long has it been?" he said simply.

            "Seven months, ten days," was the crisp and immediate reply.

            _It's her!_

            "Excellent as always, Noin."

            "Brilliant as always, Zechs."

            "We need to talk after our business here is done."

            "Room four-two-zero, staff dormitory."

            "Thank you. Now then, shall we?"

            "Absolutely."

            Noin had regained her footing during their conversation, and now stood facing Zechs. A few bullets tossed up the earth around Noin. Zechs immediately switched to the all-hands frequency. "No one attack this pilot. This one is mine!" he said.

            He glanced at the situation map and realized suddenly that that was a very appropriate thing to say—the last two or three Alliance stragglers were being mopped up. The Specials forces were down to only nine pilots, counting Zechs, but the battle was over.

            He smiled. _Noin, you don't realize this, but this is your audition. Don't let me down._

            Noin had her rifle trained on Zechs, but there was only room for one, maybe two shots before he could strike her with his saber. She was watching him carefully, waiting for him to move.

            He moved.

            She shot.

            But Zechs had moved to the right, which meant his left side—the side with the Leo's small shield—was to Noin. The first shot glanced harmlessly off.

            Noin took a second shot, this time aiming around the shield. Zechs shuddered with his Leo as it absorbed the round. Static flooded his HUD, simulating battle damage. He had now taken two hits; one more would put him out of action.

            But then he was upon her. He made a strike across his body to put her down.

            _Brilliant, Noin!_

            Under normal circumstances, a beam saber might be able to cut through a Leo's rifle—if nothing else, it would render the rifle useless. But in this simulation, the power of the sabers was toned down, which meant that the rifle could effectively counter the saber in close combat.

            And that was exactly what Noin had done.

            She made her block while leaping forward and turning. The force of the blow completed her turn for her, presenting her with a shot at Zechs' back.

            Zechs jumped the instant he saw her strategy.

            She fired.

            The shot sailed between his Leo's legs, millimeters away from shutting him down.

            The recoil from her shot ground Noin into the dirt. She had to spend several seconds getting back to her feet.

            In that time, Zechs landed near the corpse of a Leo he'd defeated and scooped up its rifle.

            Noin realized only too late what Zechs had done. Her return shot came just after his first salvo struck her, so her aim was off.

            Two rounds later, and her Leo slumped towards the ground.

            Zechs panted in his cockpit, worn out by all the fighting he had done.

            Victory, sweet victory, was his.

            And Noin had not disappointed him. She was as sharp as ever, and had almost defeated him thrice despite getting surprised at the outset.

            _It's been a good day. By tonight, I should have Noin on my side again—what a comfort that will be. Treize will be very pleased._

            He turned to the control tower, for he knew that Treize and General Compton were there observing. "General Compton, Lieutenant Colonel Treize, I hereby declare victory for the Special Mobile Suit Corps."

            There was silence on the comm. channels for several seconds. Zechs' surviving pilots gathered about him, waiting for word from the tower.

            "I, Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada, hereby certify this victory as official. The Special Mobile Suit Corps has won."

            Several more seconds passed. "I, General Compton, confirm this victory by the Specials," said a reluctant-sounding general. "I hereby transfer to the Specials and Lieutenant Colonel Treize the personnel, facilities, and responsibilities for the basic and advanced mobile suit schools at the Lake Victoria Military Academy."

            Victory.

            Treize had rolled the dice and come up big. Zechs had done the same and come up bigger.

            Total, unambiguous and decisive victory.

            Zechs fairly skipped his Leo back to the hangar.


	6. Zechs and Noin

            Even in the aftermath of victory, Zechs Marquise didn't have time to waste on savoring his success. He had only one person and one concern on his mind: Lucrezia Noin.

            _Seven months, ten days. That's how long it has been since we last saw each other face-to-face. And you knew it off the top of your head. Accurate as always, Noin._ He sighed as he stared at a door, the numbers "420" emblazoned to its front. _This is going to be difficult. How am I supposed to convince you to join my cause when my real agenda is something different? I'm not going to involve you with that one, certainly… it would be too dangerous for you. Then… what am I going to do?_

            He shook to clear his head, then knocked solidly on the door.

            She opened the door for him. "First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise," she said graciously, smiling broadly. "We meet again, after far too long. Please come in."

            "Thank you, Second Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin," he said, entering. He took a deep breath as he glanced around. The room was small, but had enough space to wedge a coffee table and some chairs in between the bed and the desk. He sat down, and found himself staring at himself—or at least a picture of himself.

            Noin sat opposite him and smiled mischievously. "I took it at our commissioning. Though I have to say, I like your new red uniform better," she said gesturing at him. "It works better with the mask."

            "Is that right?" he said. "I've worn the mask so long that questions like "what works with it" don't even enter my mind."

            "They didn't then, either," she pointed out. "Anyway, I…" she hesitated, then pushed on. "I always liked your true face better."

            Zechs inhaled sharply. He remembered. It had been the day after their commissioning. They'd been friends all throughout their stay at the academy. That day, he'd taken the mask off—just for a few minutes.

            The next day, they'd been sent to different units.

            That had been seven months and ten days ago.

            There was silence as each person dealt with their emotions. Zechs finally broke the stalemate by changing the subject. "You fought very well today," he said.

            "Thanks," she said, though not convincingly. "Even though you beat me again. I was really gunning for you that time. I wanted to beat you so badly."

            "I could tell," answered Zechs.

            "I mean, I knew your allies were going to finish me even if I won, but I just wanted to be able to say I'd done it." She smiled. "What is it with you? You're always finding the right people to help you on your way. At the Academy it was me. Now it's this Treize person."

            Zechs gave a bare laugh. "You are a much better friend than Treize," he said. "Treize is…ambitious. We have an understanding. But you're my only real friend in the entire Earth-sphere."

            "That's very flattering," she said mirthfully. "Sure, it's not something I'd brag about to other people—that I'm the friend of the man who's managed to achieve a reputation as both a brilliant pilot and a major nuisance. But it means something to me." She smirked again. "Still, it doesn't change the fact that you're always in a position to achieve success."

            "I… never got the impression that you were ambitious," he said, his voice a touch remorseful. "I would have helped you if you'd asked."

            "I'm sure you would have."

            "It's just that you've always seemed happiest when you're helping others."

            "Yes, that's true in general. But that's just the problem." Her face darkened. "I became an instructor here because I believed that I would save lives if I trained my pilots to be the best. It didn't matter that I was a low-ranking instructor if I was putting forth my best effort and making a difference."

            Zechs nodded appreciatively. "I remember. That was the topic of your major paper our last year—"The Impact of Training and Preparation on Combat Performance", I believe it was."

            She smiled wryly. "Which the instructors still liked less than your paper, "Definition of Duty in the Present Day", despite the fact that you managed to misspell 'dedication' at least once."

            Zechs shook his head. "You still remember. I'm… embarrassed," he managed.

            "But those memories are all Compton's going to leave me with," she said sadly.

            "What does that mean?" said Zechs, growing suspicious in a hurry.

            She sighed. "Didn't you know? Compton told us before the battle that if we lost it must be because the instructor corps is incompetent. He told us that if that happened, he'd revoke the piloting qualifications from every single instructor and transfer them out of mobile suits."

            Zechs frowned severely. "You must be kidding."

            "Do I look like I'm kidding to you?"

            "No… but I doubt that anyone who sees the tape of your performance today will be willing to revoke your quals."

            She shook her head sadly. "Zechs, your flattery is appealing, but your naïveté is not. You know the Alliance isn't a meritocracy."

            "He means to do it?"

            She nodded. "If that happens, I may just resign."

            "That would be a tragedy and a waste," Zechs said. "But there is another way."

            "Another way?"

            "I can make sure you don't lose your qualifications," he said. "No, I can do better than that. You'll not only still be an instructor here, but I'd like to make you the head instructor, if you'd like to be that person."

            "Is that right?" she said, raising an appraising eyebrow.

            "That's right," he answered.

            "And where did you get that much pull, First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise?" she asked.

            "From Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada," he said. "He gave me free rein and his full support in our attempt to co-opt Victoria."

            She folded her arms. "Really? "Co-opt"? Now I know there's a catch," she said.

            Zechs inwardly grimaced. _I could have phrased that better._ "Don't get the wrong impression," he said. "I want to do this for you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't benefiting from it. Your skill, dedication, and… trust… are why I knew I could talk to you about this."

            As Zechs spoke, she stopped looking suspicious and started looking curious. "About what, exactly? Tell me more," she said.

            He nodded. "Noin…" he began. He hesitated for a few seconds. _Come on, Zechs. She has to know, and sooner is better than later. You trust her, don't you?_

            _Of course.__ More than anyone else alive._

            _Then why hesitate? You showed her your true face that day, after all. You have no secrets more precious than that._

            He steeled himself, and began speaking again. "Lucrezia, a new war is coming. You know how wretched the Alliance is. Well, a war is coming to overthrow it. It's all well planned-out and proceeding apace."__

            She nodded. "Go on. Don't tell me you're part of the war?"

            "I am," he admitted—though a tinge of embarrassment entered unbidden into his voice. "Treize is the ringleader."

            "And Specials is the cover?" she said, adeptly making the logical leap.

            "Exactly. OZ—that's the organization behind it all—is planting agents throughout the Alliance. As far as I can tell, whoever wins or loses, the casualties will be catastrophic."

            She winced.

            "I don't know when it'll be, but it'll be soon. Within a decade, as near as I can tell. The point is, we're going to overthrow the Alliance."

            "And replace it with what?" she said with eyebrow raised.

            He gave a thin grin. "You know my skepticism better than anyone," he said. "I want to believe the things Treize says… he can be extremely persuasive, you know. But I'll be honest with you—I hate the Alliance more than I believe in Treize's vision of the future. I know that he'll do everything he can to make good on his promises, if that's any reassurance."

            She smiled. "You know, Zechs, it's typical for preachers to have conviction in their cause before they go converting others."

            "It's sad, isn't it? Normally I'm the skeptic, and you the one reassuring me. Either way, I have committed myself fully to achieving this goal. It gives me the freedom I need to accomplish what's really important. So I'm coming to you for help."

            "Help? What can I do to help you?"

            "Take my offer," Zechs said, voice growing urgent. "Become the head instructor here. Make them the best pilots you possibly can."

            "And then induct them into OZ?"

            Zechs nodded. "Yes."

            She turned away from him. "You… really believe in this course of action, don't you?"

            He didn't speak for several long moments. Then he bowed his head and said, "Yes. This is what I really want."

            She nodded. "Alright, then," she said, her voice level. "I'll do it." She turned to face him anew. "You want to know why?"

            "Yes. Why?"

            "Because I believe in you."

            There was silence.

            "And because you get to keep your quals this way."

            "Don't cast aspersions on my motives!" she said, laughing. "Alright, I won't deny that that played a part in my decision making, but the fate of the world is more important than my quals."

            "I just don't want you to feel that I forced you into it," said Zechs. "I'd feel too guilty."

            "Well, if it'll make you feel better, you can do something for me," she said.

            "Name it," he replied.

            "Will you…" her voice died suddenly. "Will you… take off your mask?" He didn't speak, so she rushed to clarify, blushing fiercely. "Just for a moment while we're here."

            "I understood you," he said, his throat dry for some reason. He took a deep breath. _It's not like she hasn't seen it already…_ "Okay," he said. He reached for his head.

            Carefully, with infinite hesitation, he grabbed the mask and lifted, squeezing it off of his head. His blond hair shook free; he tossed his head to air it out, blinking often.

            Noin—Lucrezia—was staring at him, memorizing the details and facets. He stared back at her, viewing his own reflection in her eyes.

            The sparkling blue eyes, long angular eyebrows, hair so blond it was almost white… the features no one else knew of, he revealed to her.

            Thoughts and emotions swirled through his mind, one after another and all at once. He felt shame at being so exposed, but it was perversely thrilling at the same time. Part of him was relieved to finally be out from under the mask, glad that he could be himself at last. Another part was terrified at the risk of taking his mask off—in an Alliance dormitory, no less! And all of it mixed with the immeasurable intimacy of showing to her what he kept secret and hidden from all others.

            They kept like that for minutes—how long, exactly, neither could tell. Then Lucrezia blushed and turned away suddenly. "That's enough," she said, her voice trembling. "That's enough. You can put it back on now."

            He lifted it again—and, for some reason, hesitated. After all, who knew the next time he'd be able to take it off again? Now that it was off, it struck him how artificial it was, this mask of his. But there was no choice. He pushed it down over his face and head again, though it took much more effort to put it on than it had to take it off.

            Noin didn't look at him. "I'm sorry," she said.

            "Don't be," he responded. He walked for the door. "I wanted to do that. Besides, having you as a friend is well worth it."

            "It doesn't make sense," she said, somewhat bitterly. "For us to feel this way, despite our both being soldiers. With so many intrigues and conflicts flying around, and with the prospect of death over our heads constantly… for us to be anything closer than colleagues is… is…"

            Zechs shook his head. "It's worthwhile," he insisted. "It's a way to remember that we're human. I, who have cut myself off from such things in the name of being a perfect soldier, in reality need them more than anyone."

            He turned to her. "That's why I need you—in a way entirely separate from wanting to recruit you into OZ. An age of chaos and destruction is coming, Lucrezia. It's the environment where Zechs Marquise, the true soldier, fits in perfectly. But I resent this person; I resent Zechs Marquise. He is useful, but I do not like him. I don't. That's why I need you. With your help, I can remember."

            He looked away. "You're right that, since we're soldiers, we may not be able to make something of this. Because we're pilots of mobile suits, it may be difficult—or even impossible—to interact outside of our other obligations. But know this much, Lucrezia. With you, I can remember Milliardo."

            He opened the door and walked away. He dared not look back at her.

            Treize showed remarkable discretion when he met with Zechs the next day.

            "Is it done?" was all he said.

            Zechs nodded.

            "Is there anything you need from me?" asked Treize.

            "I need permission to use some of the graduates from our base as assistants at Lake Victoria," he said. "And I would like permission to travel back and forth from our base to Victoria to ensure that everything is going well."

            "Granted," said Treize simply.

            And then he changed the subject.

            Zechs' life became both easier and harder. Easier because he was no longer a primary instructor; harder because he was a secondary instructor to a great deal more personnel.

            He was a very busy soldier.

            He began to travel routinely between the Specials base and the Lake Victoria, supervising, offering advice, and testing both his students and his instructors.

            His relationship with Treize grew stranger still. Even though Zechs was constantly moving, there were only so many places he could be. He was either at Victoria, at the Specials base, or somewhere between the two. But with Treize, there was no telling where he'd be from one day to the next. He made enough stops at Victoria and the Specials base to be revered by the soldiers, but aside from that he was totally unpredictable.

            The only constant seemed to be that Treize never went to the space colonies. Zechs wondered occasionally why that was. _On the other hand,_ he'd thought, _there's no way to politely ask your boss a question like that._

            That aside, though, his relationship with Treize was unchanged. As before, they spent hours discussing strategy and policy; and as before, Zechs' role was as much that of a secrets-keeper as a true consultant. Unlike before, they rarely met face-to-face, communicating remotely.

            Noin was as reliable and hard-working—and, ultimately, effective—as Zechs had expected. She worked at least as hard as Zechs did, and the three of them—Zechs, Noin, and Treize—steadily built up the loyalty and dedication of those around them even as they built up their skills.

            The cult of personality each developed corresponded, more or less, to the role they played. Noin was seen often as a mother figure, sternly but caringly developing those around her; Zechs, to his consternation, as the first among OZ's soldiers and the ultimate role-model; and Treize as the visionary leader with almost god-like status.

            In Zechs' estimation, Noin's and Treize's roles suited them. As for his own, he disagreed. "Is that so?" Treize had responded. "Then name a better pilot for them to emulate."

            Zechs hadn't responded, so Treize had continued. "Fine then, we'll do it the other way. Why should you not be a role-model?"

            "The mask, sir," said Zechs. "Everything about me is duplicitous. I thought that, since we're trying to cultivate warrior virtues, my own divided loyalties wouldn't be a good ideal."

            "On the contrary, they sympathize with you," said Treize, smiling. "Duplicity is not your nature, it's something the Alliance forced you into. The soldiers understand and respect that, for they feel that way themselves. All of OZ is a mask, a façade. Everyone in OZ has inner loyalties they dare not show to the Alliance. They, like you, wear masks, and so they, like you, anticipate the day they'll discard those masks. In this manner, you are once again the expression of the things they hold dear. As for virtues," Treize had smiled, "one of the reasons I chose you as my knight is because of your virtues. They would do well to emulate you in that regard."

            Zechs had sighed. "Well, sir, mostly because I know of my own faults, and don't want my soldiers to copy them. I don't believe in OZ with the true conviction we're trying to instill in them. Besides, their high opinion of me makes me… uncomfortable."

            Treize's smile had turned fiendish. "We all have our sacrifices to make, Zechs. You are the first among equals; you are my knight, the Arm of OZ. You have no choice but to be a role model, and it's healthy for them to model themselves after you. You're just going to have to live with the adulations of the multitude."

            Zechs bitterly wished for the days when OZ could expand enough for him to slip out of the spotlight. He had enough pressure to deal with quite aside from being the "Arm of OZ".

            He started work thinking of polite ways to ask Treize never to call him that again.


	7. Business as Usual

            Two more classes, four months, passed Zechs by. The average quality of the graduates from the Specials school declined, but that was due to rougher starting material; besides, they were managing to train greater numbers of future agents. Meanwhile, the takeover of Victoria was proving to be a brilliant move on Treize's part. Large numbers of students—not perfectly trained, but very pliable—were graduating from Noin's tutelage. Each was significantly better than the equivalent Alliance pilot, and each was ripe for recruiting by OZ's field agents.

            In a development Zechs would have considered funny were it not so tragic, mobile suit unit commanders were beginning to request Specials-trained soldiers. The difference in quality between those who were Specials-trained and those who were not was obvious to everyone.

            "It isn't good, sir," Zechs told Treize on this subject. "We're attracting too high a profile."

            "Are you waiting for me to give the order not to train the next bunch?" asked Treize.

            "No, sir," said Zechs.

            "We are maintaining a perilous balance here, Zechs," Treize responded. "On the one hand, we need to have a presence everywhere. We also need operating freedom for our remaining units. The way to achieve those things is by showing the value of our troops and our methods."

            "But by the same token," said Zechs, "we have to somehow continue to look harmless. If we begin to look too threatening—or, conversely, too proficient—we'll attract unwanted attention. The last thing we need is some Alliance general deciding he'd like to take charge of this impressive unit, the Specials—and while I'm at it, may I see your files?"

            Treize smiled. "That's right. There is no safety in this course. We are between Scylla and Charybdis, and we must work extremely hard to maintain our position."

            "Sir?" asked Zechs, not understanding.

            "Two monsters from Greek myth," Treize responded. "They guarded a certain set of straits that ships had to pass through. Scylla had ten heads that were always hungry. A ship passing close to his side could expect to lose a significant number of men to his appetite. Charybdis was more subtle, but much more dangerous. She created whirlpools on her side. It was easy to believe you could avoid her, only to lose your entire ship by drawing too close."

            Treize took a deep breath. "The perils we face are much like Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla is where we look too dangerous or too attractive, and attract the antipathy of a few Alliance personnel. Though they are dangerous, we can fight them individually, or make small sacrifices to ward them off for a while. At the very worst, we can order some of our soldiers to lower their performances, but we should be safe if we can use the Alliance's internal competition against itself and keep the right people on our side.

            "Charybdis is the one you should really worry about. Charybdis, for us, is not achieving the necessary quantity or quality of personnel that we need. How many soldiers is enough for our coup to succeed? It's a gray area, hard to define and harder to measure. All we know for certain is that the longer OZ is active in the Alliance, the greater the odds of our detection. We must achieve our coup soon or face exposure. Also, we will only get one chance at this—and I won't even discuss plans for 'if we fail.' Do you understand?"

            Zechs nodded. _Actually, this is the first time Treize has mentioned failure, even to dismiss it._ "So I'm to choose to risk Scylla. I'm to step on the toes of Alliance brass and conspicuously perform to the best of my ability… if it means getting more personnel and operating freedom for OZ."

            "At your discretion, of course," said Treize graciously. "I trust your judgment and your caution in this regard. It was possible, after all, to sail between Scylla and Charybdis without suffering attack from either monster—it was just rare."

            Zechs nodded. "There is at least one benefit to our attracting so much attention to ourselves," he said.

            "What's that?" asked Treize.

            "Lake Victoria's reputation is increasing dramatically," he said with a smile. "Competition to enter the Lake Victoria military academy is much more intense than before. So is the competition to get into the advanced mobile suit school there. The average candidate to each school, therefore, is much more talented and much more motivated than before."

            Treize caught Zechs' smile. "So your efforts are paying off. That's good. OZ will get stronger because of your efforts."

            "Thank you, sir," was what Zechs said. _Thank you, Noin,_ was what he thought.

            Zechs had specially prepared his uniform and his appearance. Scrupulous under normal circumstances, Zechs was trying to be the epitome of professionalism.

            Treize, standing beside and ahead of him, looked immaculate. But then, he always did.

            "Sir," said Zechs tentatively, "I'm not sure of the social protocols here. How should I address the nobles?"

            "Prudently and sparingly, as you would anyway," said Treize. "Most of the people in this particular circle are at the rank of marquis or duke, the top ranks. While you are being given an extraordinary grant, straight to the rank of baron, even the other barons will remain senior to you, as your grant is lifetime and theirs are hereditary. Everyone else is much, much senior to you."

            "Right," said Zechs.

            "Baron is the lowest rank one can have and still be regarded as a 'peer'. But don't let the notion that you're a 'peer' get to you—you won't be on the same tier with anyone," Treize continued. "As a general rule, speak only when spoken to, and stay close by me."

            "Okay," said Zechs. _I would do that anyway, Treize._

            "If you can't remember someone's rank, don't speak to them at all. Guessing gets you into trouble both ways: guess low and you're insulting them, guess high and you're a flatterer, a bad one. Or simply ignorant, which you are, but the nobility is a social group. How well you follow the bylaws is how they measure your worth. If you must defend your quietness, tell them you're awed by being in such company. They like that. But only say that once; after that you sound like a flatterer again."

            Zechs nodded, as if to encourage Treize to continue. In his gut, he knew there was no way he'd remember this once he went inside. This was Treize's home turf; Zechs was an uncomfortable, unwelcome guest. "Well, sir, what's your rank?"

            Treize smiled his impenetrable smile. "As commander of OZ, technically I'm the highest ranked there. My permanent rank is… unimportant."

            "But how am I to address you?" Zechs asked.

            Treize closed his eyes in thought, then opened them again. "'Sir' will do nicely, since that is our relationship. You are, in this company, my vassal, so 'sir' should be enough."

            They stood before an immense set of double doors. "Zechs Marquise," Treize said, not formally, but seriously enough for Zechs to devote him full attention. "You are about to enter into a meeting of the top circle of the Romefeller Foundation. They will bestow upon you the rank of baron, effectively making you one of them, which means that the pressure on you to act your station will be intense. We've gone over the actual mechanics of the ceremony. Do you have any further questions?"

            Zechs nodded, smiling wryly. "How soon would it be polite to leave?"

            Treize smiled in return. "I'm not going to answer that question."

            Then he gave a hand signal, and two uniformed servants opened the doors.

            The room into which they entered was a room that was begging to be taken seriously. Light entered through a series of kaleidoscopic stained-glass windows. At the front of the room was an enormous coat-of-arms. Elegant portraits of overly-attired nobles covered the walls. Yet to Zechs, the room was trying too hard to show its importance. It seemed to insist that simply being there was an honor.

            _These people believe that allowing others in their presence is to honor those others? Their pretentiousness rivals the __Alliance__'s. I'm fighting to promote _their_ rule?_

_            You know my skepticism, Treize. You also know that I didn't have to come here to get my title from these people—you could have done it all yourself. So why did you bring me here? What benefit was there, for you or for me? Do you want me to feel revulsion towards our sponsors?_

            And then there was the more chilling thought. _Or did you somehow think I wouldn't hate these people upon meeting them? Is this something you didn't expect? Is this the limit of your power?_

            He tried futilely to calm himself. _I haven't actually met them yet. It is still possible they aren't as callous, self-important, greedy, and misguided as the __Alliance__._ He followed carefully in Treize's steps, repeating that to himself.

            He really should have trusted his instincts.

            "Was it really so bad," asked Noin, "to drive you to drink something stronger than wine?"

            Zechs paused in the middle of scanning the bar's menu. "Thank you," he said. "I almost forgot myself."

            Noin frowned deeply. "Zechs, one of the things that I admire so much about you is your sense of identity. You know who you are, intimately. You couldn't "forget yourself". I know it couldn't be that bad."

            Zechs only sighed in response. "Let's retire to a booth," he said.

            She shook her head. "No need. The bartenders here are ours. I made sure of that. Not everyone has your self-control, so it seemed safest."

            "Good move, but it doesn't apply in this case. After all, we are all servants of Romefeller. The things I'm about to say would count as treason, or at least slander."

            "Let's move to a booth."

            Zechs followed Noin to a corner booth. "So, what slanderous things did you find out about the officials of Romefeller?" she asked him.

            "First and foremost," said Zechs, shaking his head, "that Treize's philosophy is not the dominant one, and peace is not everyone's ultimate objective."

            Noin nodded. "You told me about Treize's goals before. Is there such a difference?"

            "There is," said Zechs. "Treize believes that soldiers have intrinsic value—that the willingness to die is worth something by itself. His ideal is one where soldiers take upon themselves the suffering of their peoples and, win or lose, exorcise them. The blood of the soldier consecrates the conflict and removes the suffering felt by the people. Then, humanity can unite in a common celebration of such worthy champions, regardless of who was on what side. That's his ideal."

            "Right," said Noin.

            "It's an ideal that, ultimately, leads to peace." Zechs shook his head. "The most intoxicating part of the whole theory is that, when one exalts the warrior, parting with the warrior carries a pain of its own. Yes, the soldier is willing to die, which is what's so beautiful. But if one commits the soldier to death, then that beauty is perfected and destroyed simultaneously. So Treize celebrates and mourns for the lost souls together. And that mix of emotions brings peace—eventually, there develops an unwillingness to sacrifice so much beauty."

            Noin smiled wryly. "Let me guess: the Foundation doesn't quite get it."

            "The Foundation doesn't want to get it," Zechs said bitterly. "Sure, some of them feel that they're bringing back the old tradition of _oblige noblesse_—that the enlightened nobility are the right and proper rulers, because they know how to do it best. But they're the exception, not the rule; the rest are just hungry for power. They want to unite the world under their banner for their own sakes. It's not even as if they have some agenda or ideology they're trying to promote. They feel like they're the proper rulers of the world, and that's all the rationale they need. It excuses everything."

            "It doesn't seem like the nobility would go for something built on warrior virtues, anyway," said Noin. "It's a paradox that, historically, noble titles were given in exchange for military service. Today, a noble title makes you a political actor, and you leave the fighting to others. You use family and retainers, even sons, but you stay home." She shook her head. "I'd be surprised if a philosophy of exalting the warrior resonated with anyone in the Foundation's hierarchy."

            "Oh, it may have a few adherents," Zechs said vaguely. "But most see that as an issue for the soldiers—they don't feel that it matters to them. Besides, as far as they're concerned, soldiers don't need to worry about why to fight. They fight because the nobles tell them to. It's simple for them."

            "Does Treize know any of this?" she wondered openly. "Does he realize that he has no sway amongst those for whom he's conquering the world?"

            "You know Treize," he responded. "That man is opaque. I don't know anything beyond what he tells me directly—and sometimes I have to read into that." He shook his head. "Treize is like the ocean. You can only see so far, and beyond that you have no idea how deep it is or what's going on inside of it."

            Noin took a drink and let the silence fill the booth for a moment. "If it's not too bold to say…" she began.

            "I never want to hear those words from your mouth," said Zechs suddenly. "I'd hoped that this relationship would be one where neither of us had to worry about décor."

            She smiled briefly, then continued. "Well, it seems like you came out of that meeting thoroughly disillusioned. I've always known you didn't quite believe Treize's preaching, and now you know who's going to rule the world after OZ's conquest. And you don't like them."

            "Right," said Zechs.

            "So," she went on, "You never did let me in on what you're doing here!"

            He didn't respond immediately, so she pressed further. "You don't do things 'just because', Zechs, I know that. You're among the most thoughtful people I've ever met. You're helping to conquer the world—and doing a heck of a job at it, by all accounts—yet there's, as far as I can tell, no good that can possibly come out of it." She turned her head. "Excepting, of course, whatever you haven't told me yet."

            Zechs turned away, stung. "Noin, I… I have reasons."

            "Don't get the wrong impression," she said. "I'll support you no matter what. But it bothers me that you don't seem to know for yourself what you're supposed to do."

            He lowered his head. "There is a reason, Noin. It… it would be dangerous for you to know about it."

            She nodded. "I understand the limits of our openness now," she said evenly.

            "It's not that!" he exploded. He quickly regained control of himself. "Not dangerous for me, dangerous for you. Dangerous for you to be that close to me. But, more importantly, it's just that… There was another reason I donned this mask, Lucrezia. It's to hide my shame. It's not a matter of trust, please understand that."

            "I understand," she said, but she rose all the same. "If you'll excuse me, Lord Marquise."

            Zechs was frozen in place as she left him. _She spoke to me as if… as if we were strangers. She even used the decorum that goes with this accursed title._

_            Lucrezia… do you believe I don't want to tell you? Do you believe I enjoy carrying this solitary burden and shame? No. But it's something only I can do, something that has to be done no matter how odious it is. I don't want to taint you with the unpleasantness of this task. Your nature goes against it, anyway; you would help all you could with it, but you would regret it._

            He sighed deeply. _Of course, knowing that changes nothing._ He glanced at the bar menu again, and took more time to look.

            More time passed, and Zechs finally felt some relief. The Specials' advanced school had rotated its staff to 'second generation' pilots. The original thirty Zechs had taught himself had all gotten different assignments, such as instructing the all-Specials units or finding recruits. The new instructors at the Specials school had been taught by the thirty. For that reason, although the newest students looked up to Zechs as a person to emulate, they weren't learning "his" tactics; that was the way Specials had always done things. It was doctrine, no single person's but the organizations' instead. They didn't know that, just a short time before, Specials had no doctrine whatsoever. In fact, he sometimes wondered if they knew that, just a short time before, there had been no Specials at all.

            Treize certainly never implied that Specials was a young force; the way he spoke of it, you could almost imagine Specials' forerunners amongst the Legions of Rome. _But that's why he's the visionary, god-like leader, and I'm the instructor of pilots._

            Zechs reported the news to Treize. "The tenets are so firmly entrenched now," he said, summarizing, "that they're not going to be lost. My work here is done."

            "Excellent," said Treize. "We'll consider that particular training course to be your "book" on the Leo. Now write one on the Aires."

            Zechs had too much self-control to swear, but he wanted to.

            "I want your preliminary opinions on teaching methods and priorities within two weeks. Most of all, I want to know whether it would be better to "upgrade" pilots, letting them learn the Leo and then the Aires, or to start them off on Aires right away."

            Zechs nodded, his mind already working on what he knew about the Aires. "When does my test Aires arrive, sir?"

            Treize glanced at his watch. "Two minutes, ten seconds. On board is a list of available personnel. You can requisition some or all of them to help you run simulations and test engagements."

            For someone who'd just dumped tons of work on his subordinate, he was a remarkably decent employer.

            Zechs' first report was only one day late to Treize.

            "I've sent my full opinions and thoughts in document form," he said to Treize, "but I assume you'd want to hear a verbal summary."

            "Yes," Treize said simply, folding his hands patiently.

            "The most significant difference between the Aires and the Leo is that the Aires is far more mobile," said Zechs. "The controls are very different than on the Leo due to the three-dimensional nature of the machine. Although the Leo's thrusters allowed it to jump and make small but significant evasive maneuvers, the Aires is built to fly and hover at will. Thus evasion is much easier, but effective targeting is extremely difficult."

            Treize nodded. "Go on," he said.

            "Overall, only the best pilots can take advantage of the mobility of the Aires while still maintaining the level of firepower we'd expect," he said. "It's a shame because the Aires rifle, technically, is not much inferior to the Leo's. However, the Aires' mobility cuts both ways—targeting is much more challenging in an Aires moving at high speeds and strange angles. The Aires also can't carry any kind of heavier weaponry, and its armor is somewhat thinner than the Leo's."

            "So you have a negative impression of the Aires?" asked Treize.

            "No, actually," said Zechs. "The greatly enhanced mobility of the Aires trumps most of the other concerns. For one thing, it makes the thinner armor less of an issue—not getting hit is far superior to relying on your armor to stop a hit, at least in combat against other mobile suits. But more importantly, the mobility of the Aires allows it to choose where and when it engages. A team of Aires moving in concert can break up larger enemy formations and cut smaller ones to shreds. The Aires is perfectly suited to the blitzkrieg tactics we've adopted. In a one-on-one battle, the Leo has more of a chance, but in groups the Aires has a large advantage. The larger the engagement, the more that mobility advantage matters."

            Treize turned his head. "Yet I sense you're holding back on something. What is it?"

            "Well," said Zechs, "the fact remains that the Aires is only good for offense. It can't walk very well and can't run at all, and when it's flying its maneuverability is still limited. It has to travel forward first before it goes in any direction. To go backwards, for example, it has to build up some speed and execute a broad loop, completely turning around. In contrast, a Leo can walk in any direction with almost the same amount of speed. To put it simply, the Aires is a straight line machine, perfect for offense but useless on defense. We can't rely entirely upon the Aires, because the Aires cannot defend ground. We're still going to have to mix Leos and Aires."

            Treize continued to nod. "Very well. That's enough from the technical side. What does all this mean as far as policy goes?"

            "Well, there are some things in the design that I'm not satisfied with," said Zechs. "This is an assault mobile suit, but the design lacks a heavy weapon it can use on hardened targets. The Aires can't deal with anything really big or really tough—and in an assault role, that's what it's going to find."

            Treize frowned. "That is disappointing," he said. "I'll make sure some attention is paid to that problem."

            "Thank you, sir. Also, if it's possible, the suit needs a better avionics and targeting suite—the pilot really needs help if he's going to be accurate, and as it is, he doesn't get much."

            "I can encourage that as well," Treize responded. Zechs had the sneaking suspicion that his superior was being euphemistic.

            "Also, due to the complexity of piloting the Aires and the differences between it and the Leo, I think it's a bad idea to train pilots in the Leo, and then in the Aires. After basic training, pilots should be sent to either the Leo or the Aires and specialize heavily. But as I said, the Leo is far more versatile than the Aires, so we have to use both."

            He took a deep breath. "Having said all of that, I can request that the Aires be made the centerpiece of the OZ forces."

            Treize raised his eyebrows—more of a reaction than Zechs had expected, actually. "That's a ringing endorsement, Zechs. Are you so confident?"

            Zechs nodded. "Sir, OZ is going to be outnumbered in every battle we fight. When all mobile suits are equal, we can expect to suffer serious casualties. Yes, we have better pilots, but numbers do tell. However, if we have the Aires, the entire equation changes. It fits perfectly into all of our strategies and tactics.

            "It's just right for our tactics, using maneuver first and firepower second, breaking up the enemy's concentration and mulching him unit by unit, suit by suit. On a strategic level, our goal is to paralyze individual Alliance bases and then mop them up with fast-moving forces, establishing local superiority at certain points. The Aires is the fastest mobile suit unit available. This allows us to mass and disperse quickly, never giving the Alliance the opportunity to strike back at us. It's the tool we've been missing in our arsenal, and now we have it. We need to take advantage of it and incorporate it into our doctrine now, so that we have a seasoned force before the critical moment."

            "Excellent," said Treize, smiling. "I concur with your assessments. In the meantime, I want you to continue working with the Aires. I've already given you authority to requisition certain pilots and a number of Aires for this purpose. Now I'm expanding your orders. The written form will arrive shortly, but I want you to think about it now. I'm giving you the power to demand any Specials forces you want in order to test out the Aires. I want you to write the book of Aires tactics, and I'm giving you authority over any tools you decide you need."

            Zechs rocked back in his chair. "Sir, that's… overwhelming," he managed. "It's certainly more than I'm going to need."

            Treize shook his head. "Regardless, I want you to have that authority because I want your report to be comprehensive. You do your part—learn the Aires inside and out, and learn how to teach the Aires to others—and I'll do my part and get you the weapons and computers you need."

            Zechs smiled. "Yes, sir."

            "I've successfully requisitioned a certain area in the mountains of former Pakistan. Specific information is on its way, but that area is yours to use at will." Treize looked like he would speak more, but then he stopped. "Do you hear that, my friend?"

            "No, sir," Zechs said truthfully. "What is it?"

            "It's the music of change," Treize said, smiling broadly. "It grows louder in my ears the closer we get to the day of our coup. I've already named it. "Operation Daybreak"—the first day of the new world."

            Treize's magnetism was so intense when he spoke with such grandiosity. "Sir, I'll just focus on the Aires for now," said Zechs.

            "As well you should," said Treize. "We shall speak later."

            "You know where to find me, sir."

            Zechs found Noin in her office. "Hello, Noin," he said.

            As usual, she stopped what she was doing to face him. "Hello, Zechs."

            Zechs breathed a sigh of relief. _Her voice was cold just now, but at least she didn't call me "Lord Marquise" again._ "Noin," he started, "I'm heading out. I'm going to be doing tests with the Aires in multiple environments and some heavy combat training. I'll be away for a while this time."

            "I understand," she said tonelessly.

            "Is there anything you need from me before I go?" he asked.

            "No," she said.

            He had to break the tension—this was maddening. "You've gotten very good at this job, Noin," he said. "Better even than I expected."

            "I'm becoming the person you wanted me to be," she said.

            Zechs shuddered, struck by the enormity of the statement she'd just made. _That's not quite true,_ he said to himself. _You always wanted to be an instructor so that you could help people. I helped you achieve that goal!_

            _But, if that's true, then why—why does it sound like an excuse?_

            Reaching into a pocket, Zechs took out a folded piece of paper. He walked towards her desk, his face turned away from her. "If you want to know why I'm helping Treize… the beginning of the answer is here," he said. He deposited the paper on her desk, then turned back towards the door. "I'll be sure to come by and see you first thing when I get back."

            "Of course," she responded. But her voice was a touch warmer than it had been.

            He left her office, part of him numb, and wondered whether what he'd just done was bravery or cowardice.

            Noin continued with her duties the rest of the day, carefully working around the paper on her desk. At the end of the day, she picked the paper up and took it back to her room. She held it in her hands for several minutes before setting it down, unopened.


	8. Crisis at Pokhran

            Zechs sighed and shook his head. "Note to self: tell Treize that we need a better simulation system," he groaned.

            When working with Leos in simulation, showing that a Leo had been defeated was easy: the Leo simply powered down, usually falling over in the process but with no damage either way. However, such a system was very impractical with Aires suits that operated in flight. So Zechs had his pilots fly away from the engagement after they were defeated. But that wouldn't work for everyone, and not everyone could tell that they had lost. They'd need a new system before mass-training with the Aires could begin.

            Normally Zechs participated in these exercises, but this time he chose not to. He was sitting in his own Aires near the unit's carrier plane, scrutinizing the action from afar. He always needed to have different perspectives in order to understand everything about a mobile suit.

            So, for this reason, he wasn't fighting when the call came in.

            "Lieutenant Zechs, sir."

            Zechs glanced to his comm. panel. It was the carrier's communications technician. "Sir, call-in for you."

            "It can wait," said Zechs, eying the battle again, trying not to miss anything.

            "It's… His Excellency, sir."

            _In OZ, only one person merits that title._ "Put him through," Zechs said instantly.

            Treize's face appeared on Zechs' monitor. "Zechs, we have a crisis."

            "Abort exercise," Zechs barked over the all-hands circuit. "All personnel, return to the carrier. Make it quick. Carrier, prep for take-off." He turned back to Treize. "I'm listening, sir."

            "Two hours ago, we received reports of an attack against an Alliance base in northwest India. We don't know when the attack occurred; communications was the first place they hit. Half an hour ago, the Alliance locked on to a convoy of trucks, tanks, and other vehicles headed for the Himalayas. It's exactly what you would expect in this situation: attack quickly, then retreat into the mountains. The Alliance is currently in the process of assembling a task force to hunt them down."

            Zechs frowned. "There must be more to it," he said. "For the Alliance base to not report the attack, the communications must have been down before the attack commenced."

            "Sabotage," said Treize, his voice affirming Zechs' suspicion. "No official reports on it, but Lady Une and I came to the same conclusion. We also concluded that something didn't add up—the force reported doesn't seem like it could tackle that base by itself. That base had a sizable garrison of mobile suits, but when the relief force got there, they couldn't account for all the Leos."

            Treize took a deep breath. "Ten minutes ago, OZ-controlled satellites detected a second convoy of mobile-suit trucks and tanks headed south."

            "Damn," swore Zechs. "Pokhran."

            Treize nodded solemnly. "The nuclear weapons facility at Pokhran is most likely their target. We need you to get there. Now."

            "Security at Pokhran must be tight," said Zechs. "Can we count on them to hold out?"

            "I wouldn't, Zechs," said Treize. "Consider. A sizeable number of military assets were exposed for this mission. Sabotage can't be ruled out and is, in fact, probable. They hit the northern base in order to steal the base's Leos. This isn't the work of some random group of bandits; it's too well-planned and coordinated. A government is behind this. Pokhran is vulnerable—another wave of sabotage is possible, and the attackers have mobile suits. We can't risk the Alliance sitting on this new intelligence. We need you to intercept the convoy before it gets to Pokhran."

            "What are the closest OZ mobile suits?" Zechs asked, booting up a map and doing quick math in his head.

            "There are a number of OZ-sympathetic troops in the Tenth Royal Guard at New Delhi," said Treize, "but it's unlikely you could requisition them without exposing their true loyalties. The closest troops you could rely upon are at Bombay. It would take them six hours to mobilize and get to your position."

            "That's way too long," Zechs said, fighting to keep panic out of his voice. "Pokhran will be under attack inside of four." Suddenly he stopped thinking, looked around himself, and smiled. "Sir," he said carefully, "where are the nearest Aires munitions?"

            "What?" asked Treize.

            "I have seven mobile suits here with me, sir," he said. "Plus we have a carrier. We could get to Pokhran in roughly three hours—soon enough to intercept the enemy. But we only have training munitions on hand. We can get there, but we'll need live ammo to meet us."

            "Lady Une?" said Treize, turning his head.

            Another voice came over the comm. channel. "Sir," said the carrier comm. technician, "You excepted, we're loaded and ready to ship out."

            "I'm on my way," he said. Even as he spoke, he walked his Aires towards the carrier. "Take off as soon as I'm aboard. We're headed for Pokhran, India."

            "Zechs," said Treize, bringing Zechs back to his conversation. "There is an emergency airfield in the area, called North Pokhran Field. Your carrier can land there. Waiting for you will be a transport plane with live Aires ammunition. However, we also calculate that if you leave now and fly at maximum speed, you'll get there with less than ten minutes to prepare your mobile suits before the convoy arrives at that location."

            "It'll be enough," said Zechs. He kneeled his machine and the carrier's crew swarmed over it, latching and locking it secure. It took less than thirty seconds.

            "Lightning one, carrier. We're taking off now."

            "Roger, carrier," Zechs responded. "Our destination is the North Pokhran Field in India."

            "Yes, sir, we're on our way."

            The carrier lurched into motion.

            "Zechs," said Treize, "tell your troops to be careful. This will be the first live-fire combat trial of the Aires. Stay alert."

            "Yes, sir," Zechs responded. "Do you have any more information? Do we know how many suits the enemy stole?"

            "It's uncertain," said Treize, "but we're thinking maybe a dozen. Perhaps more."

            A dozen? This would be difficult, then. None of his pilots had quite mastered the Aires yet, and everything was going to be under live fire—even just getting ammunition.

            "Godspeed, Lieutenant," said Treize.

            "Thank you, sir," said Zechs.

            _I'll need all the help I can get._

            Zechs switched over to the all-hands circuit. "Everyone, this is Lightning one. I know it's sooner than we expected, but we're going into combat. Real combat. This one's hot and we don't have much time. In roughly three hours, we're landing at the North Pokhran Field. The enemy will be close by from the moment we land. They're after the nuclear weapons at Pokhran, and we're the only forces available to stop them."

            He paused momentarily, but discipline showed. Though he knew this was a shock to everyone, they restrained themselves from chattering at any level above a murmur.

            "It's all on us. There's no telling what these people might do with nuclear weapons. We have serious reason to doubt the integrity of Pokhran's defenses, so we have to stop the enemy before they get there.

            "Ammunition will be waiting for us there, but the enemy may be onto us. If so, I'll distract them while everyone else procures live ammo. You are not to engage the enemy until you have active ammunition, that is a direct order. We'll be up against commandeered Leos and tanks, number unknown but more than us for certain. Use the things we've learned the past few weeks. Stay mobile, work together, keep suppressing fire on your enemies and then finish them quickly. Keep alert for enemy reinforcements, and keep double alert for anyone who tries to get past us and break for Pokhran. Any questions?"

            "Sir, Otto. Are you sure this is going to be so hard? Our enemies aren't regularly mobile suit troops. You said they commandeered the Leos; that means they aren't in practice."

            "Neither are you, with the Aires at least," Zechs said in return. "But I have a strong suspicion that we're not dealing with amateurs here. The operation to this point has been very competent and very comprehensive. It's most likely a state-run enterprise. Whoever is behind it, they've risked a tremendous deal at this point. I can't imagine them pinning all their hopes on inexperienced pilots. If they're anything less than upper-tier pilots, I'll be shocked."

            Zechs gave everyone a moment to think about things. "Thus far, this attack has surprised a lot of people. Don't let it surprise you. This is the combat debut of the Specials. Make it a good one."

            Major Une looked at Treize. "Just how reliable are the defenses at Pokhran?"

            "I can't say," said Treize, "but we cannot afford to bet that they're solid. And from what we've seen so far, we have to assume they're compromised."

            "And no other forces are within range? Even with Zechs' distraction?"

            Treize shook his head. "Forces from Bombay are en route, but they won't arrive in time. The Aires is built for offense; it can't do a fighting retreat. Even if it could, Zechs wouldn't be able to hold them for three hours, and that's the time difference between when he arrives and the Bombay troops arrive."

            Une harrumphed. "So we're relying entirely on him," she said.

            Treize turned fully to Une. "Lady Une," he said. "Your suspicions are, at least in part, well-founded. Zechs does not believe in OZ's cause."

            "And yet you'd entrust him with such a vital mission?" she said, incredulous.

            "I would trust him with anything," said Treize firmly. "He is a perfect soldier. Even though he doesn't share our beliefs, he's willing to do everything he can to advance them. He and I have an understanding."

            She frowned. "'An understanding' doesn't sound like a very solid relationship."

            At that point he broke decorum. He reached out, took her hand, and enclosed it between his. Holding her hand between their faces, he said in measured tones, "He is my friend, Lady. I trust him completely. Can you not trust him just for that reason? Isn't my faith in him enough for you? Or do you feel that I am so misguided?"

            Une inhaled sharply, then stepped backwards, pulling free from Treize's hands. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, bowing her head deeply. "I do not trust him, but if you do, I should have at least a portion of your faith. I apologize for not believing in you more."

            "That's not the problem," said Treize. "In fact, I think that the reason you mistrust Zechs so much is because you believe in me so much—you want to watch over me."

            "That is my duty," she said.

            He smiled, though with her head still down she didn't see it. "Continue to do that, my lady," he said, "and let me worry about my other retainers."

            "Yes, sir."

            "Sir!" called the carrier pilot. "Targeting radars have us totally lit up! If we stay this close to the enemy, they will fire upon us! I can't land here!"

            "You can," said Zechs, "and you will. If you don't, we can't get ammo. If we don't get ammo, Pokhran falls. We're landing."

            "Yes, sir," said the pilot, though his voice was trembling.

            Zechs smiled to himself. _The carrier pilot community isn't known for risk-taking. Technically, in this situation, he ranks me. He could have decided not to land here. If we live, he'll have a story to tell his comrades the rest of his years._

            Zechs watched as his altimeter dropped, felt the sudden drag as the carrier touched down. The plane decelerated in short order. The moment it was motionless, the technicians freed the restraints on his Aires. He stood it up and carefully walked out of the carrier bay.

            He was assessing the situation the moment he was out. He found the ammunition plane—and laughed out loud. Zechs' pilot had landed his carrier north of the ammo plane and oriented it so that the body of the carrier was squarely between the enemy and the ammunition. He had effectively made his precious carrier a giant bunker.

            _Perhaps that pilot deserves more than a story. I'll do my best to ensure that your charge is unharmed, my friend._

            Next Zechs checked his radar. The enemy was very close. They'd stopped for a moment. _No doubt in order to deploy the mobile suits from their trucks._ "All pilots," said Zechs, "the enemy is close by. I will divert their attention while you get ammunition. Don't join me without live weapons." Without brooking argument or looking back, Zechs lifted his Aires from the ground and flew towards the enemy.

            _If I'm to hold them long enough, I'll need some ground to work with. I have to engage them before they have a chance to organize, or they'll shoot me down before my pilots get their ammunition._

            There! A rank of tanks was in front, the vanguard of the mobile suit trucks. The Leos weren't up yet, but the tanks were ready. Several of them fired. Zechs put his Aires into a steep ascent. Soon, he was at such a high angle that the tanks couldn't elevate their guns to target him.

            At that point, Zechs transitioned to a dive. The first Leo was off his carrier and reaching for his rifle. Zechs fired first, spraying blank bullets into the ground around the Leo's feet. The mobile suit hopped backwards, away from its weapon, as Zechs swooped past.

            _I can't actually hit them,_ Zechs thought. _If I make contact, they'll see I'm firing blanks and ignore me._

            Zechs angled himself for an attack up the entire line of carrier-trucks. He threw his Aires forward at top speed and low altitude. Tank shells zipped by him. Everywhere he went, he blasted blanks at the enemy carriers, trying his best to keep the enemy maneuvering and not shooting. Several of the Leos weren't even online yet, and their technicians scrambled as Zechs buzzed overhead.

            _Score another for Treize's intelligence—there's a full dozen Leos here._

            As Zechs got to the end of the line, he heard the heavy percussion of a Leo rifle. He turned hard with the Aires, arcing up behind the convoy, and then changed the angle of his engines' thrust. He used the hover mode to keep his altitude, while his momentum kept him moving parallel to the convoy, allowing him to "slide" behind it. He quickly identified the Leo who'd shot at him. More bullets whizzed by. Zechs countered with his own fire—though knowing, by means of the pit in his stomach, that his gambit was running out of time.

            Luckily, Zechs was still the only one in the area who knew that his weapon was fake; the enemy Leo evaded strongly, pulling his rifle way out of line. Zechs changed targets, firing in a way he hoped was convincing.

            Despite his best efforts, a second, then a third Leo retrieved their weapons. All of Zechs' firepower was going to keep them from shooting him; now the rest of the Leos could get their weapons. Zechs fired a hard burst from his engines and pulled away from the convoy, needing to reorient and try again.

            He turned around to face the enemy. To his dismay, five of the enemy were now focused on him, but the other seven were ignoring him and heading for Pokhran, while the tanks stayed with the carriers. _Exactly as I would have done. Unfortunately._ Zechs fired at the running Leos, but could only keep it up for a few seconds. The air around him was thick with ordinance. He began evasive maneuvers, but a bit late. His warning came with a loud screech.

            _I'm hit!_

            He hit maximum forward thrust on his Aires, carrying him over the heads of the Leos shooting at him. With a spare microsecond, he checked the damage. He sighed heavily with relief—it was just a glancing blow, nothing serious. As he flew behind the running Leos, he fired wildly at them, but to no avail—only one of them started dodging.

            _They probably don't know I've got blanks—they must have faith in my inaccuracy. Time for a different tack._

            Again Zechs pulled up for an attack run. The five Leos targeting him were to his left; the running Leos were in a line in front of him. Zechs took a hard jog to the right, taking him out of sight of the five Leos, and swooped down. The first Leo in line saw him coming and froze, like a deer in headlights, as Zechs zoomed straight at him. Then the pilot panicked and jumped backwards with all the Leo's might.

            Zechs corrected to the right a touch and skimmed by the entire line, clearing each by ever-smaller margins; he must have missed the last by centimeters. But it was worth it. All seven Leos were recovering from their panicked evasion, all in the interests of avoiding a collision.

            Zechs allowed himself a tight smile. The good news was that now all twelve Leos were now focusing entirely upon him. The bad news was that now all twelve Leos were focusing entirely upon him. And he still had no way to effectively return fire.

            The enemy lit up the sky around Zechs. He pulled out every evasive maneuver he knew with the Aires, pushing the mobile suit as much as he could. It wasn't enough; the enemy's skill and numbers were showing.

            With a crunch and a jolt, Zechs took a solid hit. His suit skewed out of balance, jerking him away from some of his enemy's fire but shaking Zechs and changing his maneuvers. Evasion was taking almost all his attention, but he had enough spared to glance at his damage report. His right leg from the thigh was gone, throwing off his suit's gyrostabilizers. His balance would be wretched now and evasion would be complicated.

            But it was then, at that glorious moment, that his reinforcements arrived.

            Three Aires with live ammunition dove upon the enemy Leos, killing four of them in a blink.

            Four explosions shook everyone around.

            Zechs gritted his teeth as he forced his machine about. _There's no way to simulate that!_ He though angrily.

            And with a sudden jolt, he realized what this was.

            This was real combat. Not a training exercise. Real.

            He'd been doing well purely on training and instinct. Those had been so good he hadn't really thought about the fact that he could actually die.

            It never even entered his mind until those four Leos went up in fireballs, snuffing out four human lives.

            _It's not so different, really, our training exercises and combat. Except that if you get hit too often here, you shut down for good._

            Surprisingly, he didn't feel paralysis or fear with this sudden reminder of his mortality. It didn't really change anything, and he didn't have time to contemplate it. He nodded to himself a few times, and then the thoughts slipped from his mind.

            He charged in again.

            His first three comrades had split in three different directions following their attack run, and the eight remaining Leos had split into groups attacking them. Zechs picked the nearest group and rained shells upon it. As he did, he began directing traffic.

            "Otto! You're clear, turn around and engage. Vin! They're tracking left. Down-right, then in again."

            And Amos' voice, "Otto, they're onto you."

            And now everyone joined in, helping each other out as they'd been trained to do.

            "Lieutenant, from the right!"

            "Got him! Another killed!"

            "Amos, duck!"

            "Vin, get back here!"

            "Scratch one!"

            It was a whirlwind of bullets and steel and blood and voices and sweat and blanks and terror and adrenaline and violence.

            Then…

            "Aaaaaaagh!"

            Zechs' Aires shuddered as a shockwave hit it. Zechs looked at his display.

            Amos' Aires had been destroyed.

            Amos, one of Zechs' favorites—chosen for this evaluation because of his superb gunnery skills. He would never again end a practice session with his little flourishes or distinctive gun-fakes. He was dead.

            In the heat of the moment, Zechs felt all the emotions of loss at once. But then it was too late, there was no time; Zechs had to jerk hard to get out of his enemy's firing lanes. The emotions had washed out of him before he turned to engage. He fired back—too accurately.

            Blank bullets pounded into one of the enemy Leos. The Leo began to fire back, then turned and ignored Zechs. The fire against Zechs' living comrades increased again.

            "No!" Zechs shouted. "Look at me!" He recklessly opened the throttle, screaming towards the enemy formation. He got their attention once more—once more, the remaining six Leos focused exclusively on Zechs. At very close range.

            They scattered as he blew through their formation, which effectively kept them from firing at Zechs' comrades. But too late; Zechs hadn't gotten off free this time.

            Secondary explosions bucked Zechs' Aires; shrapnel plinked off of his mask. The left side of his cockpit was deformed and broken. Zechs did a quick check of the damage. By some miracle, the shells that had torn through his Aires had missed the fuel lines; otherwise Zechs would have joined Amos earlier than he'd planned. Still, his left engine was shot out. The Aires' left arm, bereft of support, hung limply by its side.

            Zechs had less than half his speed, and the enemy knew his gun was worthless.

            "Sir!" cried Otto. "Get out of here!"

            Zechs despaired; he brought his Aires about in a broad arc, smoke trailing from his engines. He could see the six remaining Leos firing at Zechs' two wingmen, their tracer rounds coming ever closer to the desperate Aires. _That's my limit. That's all I can do for them._

_            No! I'm not done yet! I can still do more! Come on, Aires, stay with me yet!_

_            It cannot end like this!_

            And as he thought that, the other three Aires arrived.

            The carrier had brought a total of seven Aires with it: Zechs, three, and another three.

            The final three joined the fight at the most opportune of times.

            They caught the immobile enemies unawares, firing into their exposed backs. They rained bullets from their rifles, piercing Leo armor in multiple locations.

            Three seconds was all the time they had before they passed overhead, but that was enough. Four enemy Leos exploded outright, and another slumped to the ground, dead.

            That left one—one Leo with a golden chance to avenge its comrades.

            _No more! You won't harm them! You're mine!_

            Zechs had been flying towards the enemy. Now he tossed himself towards the Leo, coming at it from an angle. With his one good arm, he fired his rifle directly at his target's camera. The gambit worked; although the enemy ignored Zechs, the impact of blank bullets temporarily blinded the enemy.

            Temporarily—just long enough.

            Zechs tossed aside his rifle, swung his Aires in front of the Leo, and rammed it.

            More of the Aires' armor and superstructure gave way; Zechs absently noted that his cockpit was smaller now. But he was too focused to care; he was busy.

            Despite the lesser mass of the crippled Aires, it had enough velocity to topple the Leo over onto its back. Now the Aires was lying on top of the Leo. In hand combat, the Aires didn't have the strength or armor to compete with the Leo.

            _Unless I am precise and ruthless. And I, Zechs Marquise, am both!_

_            The Aires is too weak to beat through the Leo's armor, except in the one spot where the armor is thin._

            Zechs pushed his Aires further down on his foe's body, balled his right arm into a fist, and punched into the enemy's abdomen. The weak point in the Leo's armor was the place where the body opened up to allow the pilot in and out.

            Zechs' fist landed in his enemy's cockpit.

            It took four punches to batter through. But on the fourth punch, the armor gave way. The Aires slumped forward as its balance went; Zechs heard the popping of his gyros shorting out.

            And then… silence.

            He checked his radar. All twelve enemy Leos destroyed.

            With his voice strangely composed, he said to his remaining pilots, "Hunt down the tanks and truck-carriers. I want prisoners, but your lives come first. Kill as many as you need to and round up the rest."

            To his continued amazement, his voice was perfectly even as he spoke. He felt so little now that the battle was over—no sorrow, regret, terror, nothing. Even the adrenaline in his veins had vanished quickly as it'd come. It was almost as if he was viewing himself through another person.

            _I am… I am Zechs Marquise. Ruthless, precise, efficient, detached… the perfect soldier. I did my duty. I killed, and one of my men died, and I accomplished my mission. This is what soldiers do._

_            It's strange, but it feels… not right, but… natural. This is what I've worked so hard to become. This is my occupation, and this is what I am._

_            I am Zechs Marquise._

_            And now that I've been baptized by fire, have killed, I feel… relieved. I know I won't fall apart in real combat, I know I can handle it now. That's not the big thing, though. For the first time since I donned my mask, I feel…_

_            Complete._

            He shuddered, and slowly released his straps. He carefully lowered the ramp out of the Aires and stepped directly onto the dead Leo. He looked at it dispassionately, and began walking towards his Aires' arm.

            _I don't even regret killing this man. I regret that he had to die, that we had to fight each other, but I would kill him again without hesitation. The fact that I was the agent of his demise doesn't affect me. It's as if he was dead the moment the battle began. Am I… supposed to feel this way? Is this how a soldier feels?_

            He peered down into the mess that had been the Leo's cockpit. The Aires' arm blocked most of the view, but Zechs could see a few of the familiar read-outs and controls.

            Also, red splatters and pools—all that was left of the pilot. Titanium had fought flesh, and titanium had won. Juiced the enemy pilot like an overripe tomato.

            _Strange analogy… dehumanizing in a way. He was a soldier, and I am a soldier, and between us you couldn't make a whole human being._

            He smiled wryly at himself. _That's too much self-pity. You killed him because you chose to do so of your own free will, not because it's in your nature to do so. My nature is that of a soldier, but that's because I chose to be the soldier._

_            So why? Why this lack of guilt, of any kind of emotion? Am I just some kind of killer who can slaughter without remorse? No; I chose to be a killer, and I'm choosing not to feel remorse._

            Zechs gasped as he finally realized it.

            _Today was not the day I became a killer. I became a killer years ago—the day I put on this mask. That's why I feel complete. I've finally become what I set out to be._

            Milliardo took off his mask.

            He cried. Not for the pilot he'd killed, but he cried nonetheless.

            The mask was back on before Zechs' pilots returned to him. The tears were nowhere to be found.

            "Mission complete, sir," said Zechs. He was standing by the carrier's communications technician.

            "Excellent," said Treize. "Losses?"

            "Amos, sir," said Zechs. "Dead."

            "I see." Treize bowed his head, frowning deeply. "He died well? Fighting?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "I see." Sorrow blinked across Treize's face, but just for a moment; before Zechs could make sure it was there, Treize was looking up at him again. "Return to my side, Zechs. The battle is over, but the true conflicts are just beginning."

            "Yes, sir." Zechs turned to the pilot. "Pilot, please take us back to Victoria." Then he turned back to Treize. "What conflicts do you mean, sir?"

            "According to my information," Treize said, "a number of saboteurs were caught red-handed at Pokhran, apparently waiting for orders to sabotage the defenses and hangars. I think we can safely say they were anticipating the arrival of the forces you intercepted, Zechs."

            "Makes sense," said Zechs. "It's what you predicted."

            Treize nodded. "Now the Alliance is wondering what's going on. The forces going after the enemy in the Himalayas are still on their way, but the high command is demanding I explain what's going on at Pokhran and why you're there. It's going to be a tribunal. I need something to say to them."

            Zechs nodded. "I'll tell you. And I've got prisoners on board. They'll make good props for your hearing."

            Treize smiled. "Let's hope so."


	9. Milliardo and Lucrezia

            Noin was the first person at Lake Victoria to hear about the battle at Pokhran.

            She wasted no time. She went immediately back to her room and opened a piece of paper that lay folded on her desk.

            Zechs' anxiety was low-level, but constant. It wasn't that he expected Treize to mess up horribly; it was just that the consequences of even small failures here, now, would be catastrophic. He couldn't shake the subtle fear that had attached to him from the moment he'd heard that they would be the subject of an Alliance tribunal.

            It had to be the company.

            Looking around from his position behind Treize, Zechs saw a veritable who's who of Alliance top brass. There was General Vente, leader of all Alliance forces on Earth. There was General Septum, commander of the Alliance's space forces. There was their old friend General Compton, commander of all training and logistics. And, though not visible to Zechs because Treize was in the way, in the center of the chamber sat Marshal Noventa. Supreme Commander of the United Earth Sphere Alliance. Treize's fate rested in that man's hands.

            "In conclusion," said Treize, finishing his narrative, "I handed over the prisoners Lieutenant Zechs captured per your instructions." He bowed, signaling that he was done.

            Marshal Noventa sighed, then spoke. "The chair will now allow questioning of Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada."

            General Compton was the first. "Colonel Treize," he began, "something bothered me while I was listening to your stories. It seems to me that you glossed over the most critical part of this incident, and the reason why we convened this tribunal. How did you make the logical leap from the fact that the upper Indian base was attacked to the conclusion that the enemy was going after Pokhran? How could you determine that with such certainty that you'd dispatch your lapdog lieutenant to intercept them?"

            A mix of emotions hit Zechs, but the big one was relief. They'd known this question was coming, and they knew that it would be problematic. The truth was that Treize had cheated. He'd used OZ's intelligence assets and satellites to detect the second enemy convoy. Granted, that was only after he'd guessed correctly that the convoy existed, but the confirmation he'd received from OZ was the key to his decision making.

            The problem was that, for obvious reasons, Treize couldn't go out and say that. So now he had to spin the tale he'd told the Alliance—spin it enough that it looked like a very good guess with a logical basis, based only on the information available to everyone.

            _But since we knew someone had to ask the question, our hope was that __Compton__ would be the one to ask it. He couldn't restrain himself, and it plays into our hands._

            Zechs restrained the urge to smile. _Everyone knows __Compton__ hates Treize for making a fool of him over __Lake Victoria__. With him doing the questioning, Treize can emphasize __Compton__'s antagonism and make __Compton__'s anger the issue, rather than Treize's guesswork. By the end of it, Treize will have __Compton__ screaming that the nukes at Pokhran didn't matter at all. That's something the __Alliance__ brass won't buy—even the __Alliance__ takes nuclear weapons very seriously. The more foolish __Compton__ seems, the more righteous Treize seems, regardless of evidence._

            Zechs didn't have to see Treize's face to know that the man was licking his chops. Zechs almost grimaced in sympathy for Compton. _This is going to be ugly._

            Zechs knocked on the door, right above the numbers 420.

            Noin opened the door. "Welcome home. Please come in, Milliardo Peacecraft."

            _That name! Even to you I only said "Milliardo"! And you're welcoming me "home"?!_

            "You opened the paper," he said. Not accusingly, not gratefully, but with his typical inflectionless tone.

            "Yes, I did." She stepped backwards; he followed her.

            His mask was off the moment the door was closed.

            He looked around. There, pinned above her desk, was the paper he'd given her, with the words written on it "Sanc Kingdom". "Noin…" he stopped. "Lucrezia. Yes, I am Milliardo Peacecraft, orphan prince of the Sanc Kingdom." The words flowed easily from his lips. Which was not surprising, given that he'd kept them bottled up for over a decade; it was amazing, if anything, that he didn't speak more quickly.

            "The son of a pacifist… why did you, of all people, dedicate your life to being the perfect soldier?" she asked.

            He sighed. "The Sanc Kingdom was a bastion of pacifism. Its rulers were dedicated to the notion of total pacifism, that mankind could overcome its will to fight and achieve peace for itself. But, for its non-compliance with the Alliance, it was overrun and destroyed."

            "Don't tell me," said Noin. "Don't say you became a soldier to defend the notion of pacifism!"

            He shook his head. "The Kingdom was already gone, the notion was lost. The ideal was as dead as my nation. No… I became a soldier to get revenge."

            He chuckled lightly. "So odd. Of all people, myself, a man known for his rigorous control of his emotions, responded to such a base desire as revenge. But I did then, and I do now. As I grew older, I began thinking about the matter more seriously, and I decided that my hatred for the Alliance wasn't just that they destroyed my kingdom. A kingdom dedicated to pacifism is no threat to anybody, yet the Alliance felt it had to destroy the kingdom out of self-preservation. When you're threatened by peace, there is something wrong with you. Such an Alliance can't be allowed to exist. So, the further along my path I traveled, the deeper and more complex my motivations became.

            "To enable my revenge, I crafted Zechs Marquise. It took me years to create new mannerisms, accents, and mindsets from my own. I even created a different set of morals and scruples for Zechs. This mask is the personification of this other-person, Zechs Marquise. At the same time, I learned all I could about mobile suits, because I knew that they would be my destiny. They would allow me to have the greatest impact."

            He shook his head. "Now that I'm actually inside the Alliance, my determination has only waxed. I've seen first-hand the idiocy, callousness, greed, and wastefulness that permeate the Alliance. The Alliance has long-since outlived its usefulness—it was obsolete the moment it destroyed the Sanc Kingdom. I knew I couldn't do much, but I could do a little—even if I only killed a few of the Alliance's villains, that would be fewer left to run amuck on the world stage."

            Noin nodded. "And then you met Treize."

            "Well, more like Treize arranged our meeting," said Milliardo. "It was at a training exercise. We were on opposite sides of a very large battle, but by the end we'd fought each other to a draw. That alone was enough to attract my attention. He fought so differently from the rest of the Alliance—and so well! He was the first person who could match me on the battlefield. Afterwards we spoke, at length.

            "By the end of our conversation, he'd revealed OZ to me, and told me of his plans to overthrow the Alliance. All he wanted was my fealty. I told him, eventually, that I had ulterior motives. I was as vague as possible, but I told him that I had another set of priorities to accomplish that weren't necessarily what he would want me to do. He told me he didn't care, that I would have free rein to accomplish those."

            "And so you joined OZ," said Noin, guessing the rest, "because it hated the Alliance the same way you hate the Alliance."

            Milliardo nodded. "That's fair, I think."

            She shook her head. "But you did that without even thinking about the merits of OZ. Who's to say that a world under OZ's leadership won't be worse?"

            "Yes, I was hasty," he said. "But… Treize Khushrenada gives me hope. I haven't had hope in a long time, so it appealed to me. Even now, I still hold out that Treize can bring peace."

            "And if he can't?"

            "Then I'll turn against OZ," Milliardo said. "I said already, I hate the Alliance more than I love OZ. If OZ is no better, I'll have no regrets fighting it." He smiled wryly. "I am getting pretty good at this soldier thing. I'll keep on fighting until I can find someone who's got it right."

            "I hope that's not as long as I think it'll be," said Noin.

            He laughed. "I hope so, too. I don't want to be Zechs Marquise forever. Someday I hope to live in a world where I can be Milliardo."

            "Milliardo, monarch of the Sanc Kingdom?"

            "It's too late for that," he said, his face growing dark. "I'm already one of the most famous soldiers in OZ, perhaps in the Alliance. I could never become a credible pacifist, let alone ruler of a pacifist nation."

            She shook her head. "So the Sanc Kingdom really is dead."

            "No," said Milliardo. "There is another."

            "Another what?"

            "The Alliance killed most of the royal family in their attack," he said, "but they missed two of them."

            "Two!" she exclaimed. "If one of them is you, who's the other?"

            "A girl. My sister," he said. "I haven't been able to find her—granted, my resources have been distinctly limited, but for the most part it would be very unsafe for me to go looking for her. But she is alive, of that I'm certain. And as long as she lives, the Sanc Kingdom has a chance live again." He clenched his fist. "If I could fight for that, maybe I could be a soldier and Milliardo at the same time. As it is, where I can only fight to destroy, I must be Zechs Marquise. But the day that I fight as Milliardo Peacecraft, I'll have found a way to bring peace to this world."

            There was silence in the room. A long silence, as both parties absorbed the things he'd said.

            "That's it," he said. "I have no more secrets. That's the lot of them."

            "Well," said Lucrezia, "now I know what I'm really fighting for."

            "And what's that?" asked Milliardo.

            "The same as it always was," she said, smiling. "I fight for you."

            He turned away to hide his blush. "Lucrezia, you… can't know how that affects me," he said. "This shame and fear I've lived with for so long, I… to hear you say those words now, after I've told you everything, is… why?" he asked desperately.

            "Why what?"

            "Why do you fight for me?" he said. "It doesn't… I can't understand. My own behavior shames me, yet you fight for me. What about me—this wretched coward who hides behind masks to satisfy primal desires, who bloodies his hands while prattling of justice… what can I possibly offer you?"

            He shook his head, confusion evident in his unmasked eyes. "It's not as if I can give you anything; it's not as if I can change the object of my life at this point. I can't not be a soldier, even as Milliardo; so long as there's war I must be a part of it, and there will always be war. So why? Why fight for me?"

            He turned back to her with his last words, begging for an answer—and found her staring hard at him, her face angry. "Do you think so little of me," she said, "that I would love this person you have just described?"

            His mind blanked out—he was stunned. He lost all forms of expression. He had to hear more or be paralyzed forever.

            She softened her gaze now, and began to speak in a tone he'd never heard before. "Milliardo… I never wanted to join the Alliance, you know. To this day, I think that the only reason I applied to Lake Victoria was because it was free education. I tested out so highly in their aptitude tests they were willing to do anything to get me there. I had the head for the military, but I didn't have the heart.

            "So there I was, a brand new student-soldier with no direction and no purpose. That's when I met you. I saw you passing by one day, wearing your mask, with your chin set in the I'm-on-a-mission way only you can do. Some seniors nearby were whispering about you. I went up to those people and I said to them, "Don't mock him! Anyone wearing a mask has a very good reason!""

            She smiled in the remembrance. "I never told you that story, did I?"

            He shook his head. "I never heard anything about that."

            "But I remember it clearly," she said. "Milliardo, you're the most dedicated person I've met, but you're also the most doubting. The reason you continue to impress me is exactly because you hold yourself to such rigorous standards. I know, when you decide to do something, that it's what you feel is truly righteous. And that… confidence…" she trailed off.

            He didn't say anything, so she tried again. "After all, how many people have the strength of mind to create a whole new persona for themselves, keeping to it absolutely?"

            She looked away from him. "As I got to know you better," she went on, "I realized a lot of what you just now told me. You don't give me enough credit, Milliardo. I could sense you hiding more than just your face with that mask. One of the things that infuriates those around you is how much you sound like a penitent—even as you prove your superiority as a soldier and a person. But I knew you well enough to be sure that you had reasons for acting that way. And the more I found out about you, the more I wanted to know."

            She smiled. "I admired your strength. And I admired how you had done so much just by deciding what was most important to you. So I decided I wasn't going to be aimless anymore. I decided that you were the most important thing to me. I decided that I would fight for you, because I loved you."

            She stopped speaking, but Milliardo's panic continued to rise. In jerky motions, Zechs grabbed for his mask.

            As his hand reached the mask, hers grabbed his wrist. "Why?" was all she said.

            He trembled. Hesitated, the seconds stretching out into miniature eternities.

            "Lucrezia…" his voice trembled more than his hands. "…If I… say anything… back to you… I'll… I won't be able to be Zechs Marquise any longer. If I… say… if I let you be the… the most important thing…" he broke from her grasp and pushed the mask onto his face, hiding the turbulent emotions as they broke through his control.

            Lucrezia withdrew her hand—and smiled. "It's okay," she said. "I knew it had to be like this when I decided to love you. I understand. Things will be just as they were before." Zechs finally understood her smile. It was the smile of someone who has every reason to cry and is choosing not to. It was the smile of someone who was trying to find happiness by letting him not love her.

            He lingered, that pitiable face etching itself into his memory—and then rushed from the spot, before he broke down.

            _Lucrezia… it's not just that I can't let myself love you. It's that I'm incapable of loving you the way that you deserve._

            But one thought burned in the corner of his brain, a renegade thought he dared not think too often.

            _What's most important. I'm trying to tell myself that I would sacrifice anything for what's most important. So far in my life, that's exactly what I've done. But if she…_

            That face appeared again, and it wouldn't leave his consciousness.

            _If she stood between me and what's most important… could I…_

_            Could I…_

_            Kill her?_

            And he broke into a sprint, trying to get away from her. But he couldn't escape his own thoughts.

            The next day, Zechs and Noin met to discuss the training regimen at Victoria and how best to incorporate Aires training. They didn't talk, gesture, or act any differently than they always had.

            They were very careful to make sure that was the case.

            They were careful again the next time they met, three days later. And again four days after that. Two days later they met again, and they were no less careful.

            Denial gets easier with practice.

            Zechs was standing on a lift, headed towards the cockpit of his Aires, when he noticed something strange. He stopped the lift and moved it over towards the Aires' left. Yes, that was odd… he'd never seen a weld like that before. He dropped back to ground level and scanned around for a mechanic.

            "Excuse me," he called to one. When the mechanic had joined him, Zechs pointed at the Aires. "Is there something different about this Aires? I noticed a few welds in odd places."

            The mechanic grimaced. "You noticed, sir? I'm sorry, they must be left over from my restoration job."

            "Restoration?" Zechs stood there, not comprehending. "Is this…?"

            "Yes, sir," said the mechanic. "This is the Aires you took with you to Pokhran."

            "But that Aires was all but destroyed!" Zechs exclaimed.

            "I'm not denying it was a challenge," said the mechanic modestly. "Still, I'm embarrassed that you noticed its imperfections. I suppose I need more practice."

            "Mizer! What are you doing, chatting idly…" the voice trailed off as its owner, the lead mechanic, noticed Zechs. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know the two of you were working."

            "You rebuilt the Aires I took to Pokhran?" said Zechs, still amazed.

            "Actually, Mizer rebuilt it, sir," said the head mechanic. "I said we should scrap the whole thing and use what was left for parts, but he said no, let him have a crack at it. And, well, I'll be darned if it doesn't run at least as well as it did before!"

            "The fact that it hadn't failed you meant it was a faithful machine," said Mizer, "and I hate more than anything to let a faithful machine die. It was a nightmare, sir. The gyro and balance systems were totally shot, most of the structural supports on the left were worthless, and the left engine is more replacement parts than original ones. Even so, I know it won't fail you, sir. I'll guarantee it."

            Zechs suddenly felt a great deal of affection for his Aires—and more than a little respect for Mizer. "Thank you for your hard work. I'll try to bring it back in one piece, next time."

            "Thank you, sir. And if you don't, I'd be honored to work on it again."

            Zechs added Mizer to his mental list of extraordinary people. He would use that man again, certainly.

            "Sir," said Zechs.

            "Yes, my friend?" asked Treize.

            "I've completed my assessment of the Aires. I have mastered this mobile suit." Zechs let himself a smile. "I've even come up with a few things no one intended the design to do."

            "And my associates in Romefeller have completed work on the heavier weapons you requested," Treize said.

            "In… Romefeller?" Zechs said.

            "That's why it's called a military-industrial complex," said Treize, a smile on his face.

            _Well, it makes sense. I just didn't expect him to say it like that._

            "Prototypes are on their way to you," Treize continued.

            "Excellent," said Zechs. "I'm ready to hold a training course for the first round of students."

            "The ones who'll become instructors for others?"

            "Exactly," said Zechs. "Just as we did with the Leo. I'm transmitting a list of the personnel I plan to train. You, of course, have authority to edit the list as you wish."

            Treize smiled inscrutably. "Second Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin is on your list again. I still haven't met this woman."

            Zechs turned his eyes away from the monitor. "You said I need only introduce you if I wanted to."

            "Of course, forgive me." Treize apologized without dropping his smile. "In any event, I want you to keep something in mind."

            "What, sir?"

            "These training exercises are your top priorities, but events in the outside world are speeding up," Treize said solemnly. "The rumbles of discontent beneath Alliance rule are growing louder and more violent. The attack on Pokhran marked a turning point. Since the destruction of the Sanc Kingdom, the enforced peace of the Alliance has reigned without much resistance. That's over. We will be very busy soldiers, Zechs."

            "I understand, sir," Zechs answered. "We'll bring live ammunition with us, this time."


	10. Taken in Stride

            Zechs said, "Pause."

            The technician paused the display. The image on the screen showed three Aires breaking formation. "What's wrong with this picture?" he asked. "Does someone see it?"

            He scanned the room. His eyes touched Noin's for a moment; in that moment, he saw that she knew the problem. She was showing discretion in not pointing it out. Zechs had no need for the illusion of favoritism, regardless of how obviously skilled she was.

            Finally, a soldier named Cunha raised his hand. "Sir, the Aires are all splitting up along the same axis. Yes, each one is going a different direction, but they aren't changing their altitudes, so it's still easy to track them."

            Some pride filtered into Zechs' chest, displacing the disappointment that he'd felt when his pilots made the mistake originally. "That's correct. You aren't piloting Leos; you're piloting Aires suits. The Aires operates in three dimensions. If you want to get the most out of this mobile suit, you have to change your habits."

            _Still, the class is going fairly well,_ Zechs thought. _We're making good progress. We'll be ready just in time for the new year. Strange timing._

            "Lieutenant Zechs," called a technician from the back of the room. "There's a call for you from His Excellency."

            Zechs frowned, though the mask concealed it. _He knows my schedules. He's never interrupted me before. What's going on?_ "Three minute break," Zechs announced, then walked briskly to the sound room in the back.

            "Sir," he said.

            "Zechs," Treize said, "how are things going?"

            It was a conversational thing to say, and Treize's demeanor was flat. Still, Zechs was getting quite good at reading his superior—the man was anxious about something.

            Of course, the call itself was proof of that.

            "We should be ready by New Year's," Zechs answered.

            "You're going to be in action before that," Treize said. "I don't know when or where—yet. But the Alliance is practically begging for something to happen. This is the consequence of having such a fragmented command structure. The traditional "holiday season" is upcoming, and one part of the Alliance is announcing extra days off and lighter duty. In the meantime, another part of the Alliance has declared that the regional governors in Africa will be touring one another's mandates as a good-will tour. It's a dangerous combination."

            Zechs noticed with surprise the touch of bitterness in his superior's voice. Just a touch—but a touch was infinitely more than Zechs had heard before. "Has the Alliance forgotten about the last attack?" asked Zechs. "Did they catch them or what?"

            "No progress," said Treize, clearly disappointed. "The aggressors lost them in the mountains, and there's an ongoing campaign to scour the Himalayas. As to who was backing the saboteurs, so far no leads have panned out."

            "The Himalayas…" Zechs murmured.

            Treize blinked. "Do you have something, my friend?"

            "Perhaps," Zechs said. "What other information do you have?"

            "Precious little." Treize frowned. "I'll send you the route the goodwill tour is taking."

            The image appeared on Zechs' screen alongside Treize's face. Zechs scanned it, then inhaled sharply.

            Treize's eyes focused on Zechs. "What?"

            "It's Somalia," Zechs said.

            "Really? How are you so sure?"

            "The troops in Somalia aren't merely garrison troops. They're almost exclusively mobile suit units, and all of them have carrier units so they can be moved around quickly. Somalia is like a depot—whenever there's trouble, Somalia is the first place they pull troops from in order to maintain control."

            Treize nodded as he picked up Zechs' train of thought. "And the mobile suits of Somalia are currently on deployment in the Himalayas, hunting down renegades."

            "I'm not current on the Alliance's force deployments, but that's the sort of thing they'd do," said Zechs. "Without those units, there's nothing heavy in the region. Tanks alone could overpower most of the bases there, never mind enemy mobile suits."

            Treize nodded, and subtly relaxed. Zechs almost smiled as his boss changed. _When he was uncertain of what might happen, it caused him so much irritation—but now he's back in control. His powers of foresight are limited, after all, and it's a nasty truth for him to swallow. Even so, he can incorporate the unexpected into his future, making almost anything a means to the same end._

            "It sounds right," Treize said. "I'll have my sources look into it more closely. In the meantime, keep your forces on alert. We may need you soon to resolve a crisis—most likely some kind of hostage situation. Lake Victoria is reasonably near Somalia, so I want you to react at the first sign of enemy attack."

            "Yes, sir."

            The expected crisis was not terribly long in coming.

            Two weeks later, the governor's goodwill tour was passing through Somalia—against Treize's on-record pleas for them not to—when a sudden attack occurred on a base they were inspecting.

            "Pilots," crackled Zechs' voice over the comm. system. "We're currently on our way to an Alliance base near Hargeysa, Somalia. The combined Alliance governors of Africa decided to invite others to capture them, and our enemy has obliged. Now we have to rescue them."

            Noin flew through her checklist, marking off the various items needed to start up her Aires. It wasn't a rush, they were still ten minutes from deployment, but she wanted to be ready nonetheless.

            "I've sent the blueprints of the area and the probable arrangement of defenses to every pilot's screen. Our data is old, but as far as we can tell, they did a lot of damage to the base when they struck it. That means the enemy's suits and vehicles are our primary concerns.

            "A civilian flight was scheduled to be here at this time and speed, and with our two carriers in such tight formation, we fit right into the profile of that flight. Since they're using the base's radar as their own, the enemy's radar should filter us out automatically. I want us to use the maneuver we practiced three days ago—and drop out of the carrier directly into combat."

            Noin nodded—she'd expected him to use this tactic. If they dropped directly over the target and immediately went into a dive, they could strike the enemy at such high speed he wouldn't be able to react. The element of surprise was key, especially since the enemy had hostages.

            The hostages… if they were attacking the hostage takers, how did Zechs expect to keep the hostages alive?

            "The hostages are being held in the command building. In all likelihood, we're only going to get two passes before they open channels with us. That means you have to be fast and accurate. I want everything outside that building destroyed before I have to start negotiations."

            Negotiations? Noin thought. What is he planning?

            "I have confidence that we can do it, but we have to be very quick and very ruthless. When I give the command to halt, you must halt, no matter what you were doing. If you were in the middle of an automatic burst I'd expect you to cut it off. This is all about timing. Does everyone understand?"

            Affirmatives came over the comm., to which Noin did not contribute. She was holding out for an explanation. She knew it would come, but she wondered as to his hesitancy.

            Zechs' voice came to her again—but this time over the tight-band frequency, in privacy. "Noin, I have a special role for you. You're going to have to re-program your Aires." He outlined his plan.

            Noin glanced down to her waist, where her sidearm was holstered. "I'm not that good with a gun," she warned him.

            "I don't see how that could be," Zechs said, "but I trust you nonetheless. Can you do it?"

            She hesitated, then said, "Yes. I can."

            "Good. I'm counting on you, Noin."

            Noin brought her aviator goggles down over her eyes. I know you are, she thought. And, for you, trusting someone like this is the hardest thing to do.

            "We're coming into the drop zone," Zechs announced over the common frequency. "Everybody secure for battle."

            Zechs felt a momentary weightlessness as his Aires left the carrier. He quickly reoriented towards the ground and accelerated, putting the suit into a dangerously steep dive. The range of his rifle was artificially extended by the fact that he was firing almost straight downwards. He began shooting immediately.

            Tracers started filling the sky around him—so far, from air to ground only. Good, surprise was complete. The enemy was still trying to figure out what hit him.

            Zechs' altimeter screamed as he plunged back to Earth, picking off target after target as he dropped. Then he pulled back as hard as he could. G-forces from the maneuver all but paralyzed him, but he retained both consciousness and his change in direction.

            He came to a halt about three meters above ground, facing the command building directly. He glanced at the blueprints on his screen, ignoring the carnage and chaos all around him. He took aim and fired three shots. It was a squat building, five stories tall. Each shot tore through a part of the building in its top two floors.

            Now he saw Noin's Aires swoop past his—and saw Noin egress.

            As he'd told her, she'd programmed her Aires to fly out of the area after her initial attack run. Normally, the winch-and-rope pilots called the "tether" was used for pilots to get in or out of their Aires. But there Noin was, dangling at the end of her tether—and releasing it, rolling to a stop on top of the building, and now running. Her Aires was pre-programmed to fly away from the base and come to rest ten miles out.

            Zechs turned his attention back to the battle—but there was no more battle. His pilots had been even more efficient than he'd planned for. The only way to see who'd gotten what kills would be checking the flight recorders afterwards. There wasn't enough left of their foes to know how many enemies there had been.

            At that point, an angry voice came over the comm. "If even one of your mobile suits moves, the hostages are dead!"

            "Halt," Zechs called, though at this point it was a formality.

            "I want you to know that you have caused untold pain to your precious Alliance," his opposite number said. "This little escapade of yours is an outrage! A breach of agreement! We now demand, in addition to double the ransom on the hostages, triple restitution for our fallen comrades!"

            _Need to give Noin a little more time,_ Zechs thought. "Is that so? Could you please give us an inventory of what was destroyed just now?"

            "No, we can't," said the voice. "It's impossible to think with hostile mobile suits hovering about like that. My first demand is that all of you back off. Slowly. And drop your weapons while you're at it."

            "You told us not to move," Zechs said.

            "Toy with me again, and we'll kill one of the governors outright," said the voice. "That was the previous set of demands. This is the new version. Back off, or the governors die."

            Zechs said over the all-hands, "Everyone back up fifty meters." He then followed his own order.

            "Fifty meters isn't enough," said the voice.

            "Four-two-zero," a new voice said, breaking into the conversation.

            Zechs smiled. _Enough of this charade._

            "I warn you not to try anything funny," said the old voice. "I said I want you to back up further."

            "Sorry, but it's not my policy to negotiate with terrorists," Zechs said, taking aim at the building again. "You will come out now, or my bullets will come in after you."

            The Alliance governor of Somalia, Edwin Magadu, was not by nature a timid man. It was not as if he wasn't used to guns and such—after all, he had security forces around him most times. Still, he was one of the few Alliance governors who had not been the target of an assassination attempt. He wasn't used to danger.

            As Magadu looked around, the three men with their automatic rifles glared at him, trying to cow him again. It worked. Fine, he wasn't timid by nature—but being a hostage was not something he was prepared for! Why, he hadn't been in this much danger since that soccer game in high school!

            He was but one of the thirty Alliance officials the rebels had snagged. All thirty were now being held captive in this room, in the geographic center of the building, waiting helplessly for whatever the rebels decided.

            He felt the first explosion rather than heard it.

            Suddenly, even in the middle of the building, everyone could hear explosions and heavy weapons fire. Magadu panicked. Was this some sort of rescue? Who launched an attack against people who had hostages?

            The more intense the battle got, the more panicked the prisoners got. The rebels finally had to fire some shots into the air, which quieted the crowd despite the ongoing battle.

            That's when something ripped the roof off.

            The whole building shook. Magadu heard ear-splitting impacts, then felt like he was being pulled upwards—and when he looked up, he could see the sky.

            The ceiling was torn off, and so was part of the roof—not exactly the same, so he could see part of the roof but couldn't see all the damage done to the roof. But his thinking was too muddled to make sense out of why that could be.

            All three of the guards were now waving their guns around, firing shots into the air and trying to keep the desperate captives under control. There was great confusion and clamor, to which Magadu contributed.

            The deep noises outside ceased—and Magadu saw something above the ceiling glisten.

            Then there was the crack of a small-caliber pistol, and one of the guards fell straight forward, his neck twisting at an unnatural angle.

            Another crack, and the second guard collapsed without resistance.

            The third guard made the mistake of looking behind him for his assailant. Two more pistol shots thumped into that side of his head. Mercifully, he fell to the ground with that side down, keeping the spooked governors from seeing the gore.

            The governors—Magadu included—hovered between petrifying fear and stampeding panic. Then a figure dropped through the open ceiling from the floor above. It was a woman, holding a pistol and wearing flight goggles.

            Magadu was closest to her, so he was the only one who heard her murmur to herself, "I told him I wasn't that good with a pistol. Those men didn't need to die, but every shot I fired was in the head." As she said this, she put a new clip of bullets into her pistol, then approached the governors, gun in hand. "Everyone stay calm," she said.

            Magadu expected her to say more—the words "I'm here to rescue you" would have been most appreciated—but she clammed up. Instead she reached for one of the dead guards and grabbed his communicator. She fiddled with it a second, then spoke into it "Four two zero."

            At this point Magadu and the other governors realized that a conversation had been going on over the comm. "I warn you not to try anything funny," came a voice. Magadu instantly recognized the voice as that of their chief captor. "I said I want you to back up further."

            Next was a voice that Magadu didn't know—but its voice was cold, and its words were still more terrifying. "Sorry, but it's not my policy to negotiate with terrorists. You will come out now, or my bullets will come in after you."

            The governors began to edge towards the "stampeding panic" side of the equation. Magadu's insides froze. What kind of negotiations were these? This fool was going to get everyone killed! Yet he spoke with such icy certainty… was it simply that he didn't care about the hostages?

            The captor's voice came again. "If you don't want to negotiate, then perhaps a little persuasion is in order. Guards, shoot one of the governors."

            To Magadu's horror, the woman lifted her pistol, thumbed the transmitter "open" so it could hear everything, and fired two shots.

            Pandemonium erupted. Although they didn't try to rush the woman, everyone scrambled about like ants. Even the most dignified screamed in terror. Magadu, however, felt an inexplicable calm. It took his brain a moment to realize what it had already figured out. He looked behind him, following the woman's pistol arm…

            And saw the governor she'd shot at quivering but alive, with two neat bullet holes in the wall beside him.

            Magadu focused through the screams and shouts, trying to hear the ice-voice again—a voice, he quickly decided, that he liked. "I have a counter-offer," the ice-voice said. "Surrender and come out within sixty seconds, or I'll kill you all myself."

            "Bad deal," said the captor, though his voice had lost some of its confidence. "Perhaps a few more dead governors will convince you. Guards? Kill three more."

            Once again the woman thumbed the transmitter and opened fire—and once again, as Magadu observed, the rounds impacted only wall, no flesh. This time he contributed to the screaming—but deliberately. He hoped his fakery wasn't obvious, even as he tried to hear the conversation.

            "How's that?" asked the captor, smugness back in his voice.

            "Forty-five seconds," ice-voice replied.

            "Do those people's lives matter to you?" screeched the captor, his voice cracking from the strain. Ice-voice's unexpected cruelty and authority were breaking him down.

            "Forty seconds."

            "Guards! That's it! Kill all the prisoners, and let this man listen to what he's done!"

            The woman dropped the pistol and grabbed one of the machine guns the guards had carried. This time Magadu gasped in genuine fear. She put the communicator on the ground, held it 'on' with her foot, and opened fire with the weapon.

            The screaming was intense, but it began to die almost immediately as people realized that no one was getting shot. Magadu went to work immediately, trying to get everyone silent—silent like the dead. The woman finally stopped firing, let the silence go over the air a moment, then stepped off of the transmitter.

            Most of the people were still stunned, but Magadu had figured it out. He waited for ice-voice to make the next move.

            "Are you done?" asked ice-voice. "You still have twenty seconds to come out and live. I don't care whether you live or die, but we might need that building later."

            Magadu resisted the urge to laugh despite the death and destruction all around him.

            The former captor, now captive, broke. "Alright! Alright! We're coming out!"

            The woman promptly switched channels—she obviously knew ice-voice's command frequency. "Squad one: keep rifles trained on the building; squad two, guns on our new prisoners. I'll go around and get the governors out. Cunha, Ross, you're in charge. Noin, how are the governors?"

            "They're all here, Zechs," the woman said. "Aside from frazzled nerves, they look alright."

            "That was a splendid performance."

            "Thank you, sir. We're on the third floor. I'll get them to a room on the East side near some windows. You can get them out from there."

            "Roger that," said ice-voice—though his voice was warmer now.

            The woman dropped the machine gun, pulled down her flight goggles, and saluted the governors. "My apologies, gentlemen," she said. "My name is Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin, of the Specials Mobile Suit Corps, Alliance military, and I'm here to rescue you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, but we needed your fear to be convincing if we were to get your captors to back down."

            Disbelief at her audacity swept through the governors. Most of them were in too much shock to respond, but Magadu could feel it. This woman doesn't deserve that, he thought. He stood and said in his stump-speech voice, "Thank you, Lieutenant Noin. I'm still alive, so you must have done something right. No, I don't give you enough credit. Your and your compatriots have done a wonderful job, and we are all in your debt." He offered her his hand. She shook it—more firmly than he was able to, actually, which surprised him.

            "I do my duty," she said. "Now, gentlemen, I'd like you to come this way. It'll be a while before infantry forces arrive to secure this base, so in the meantime we're going to get you out of here. The terrorists may have left a few surprises in the building, and we don't want to take chances with the people we've just saved."

            She walked out of the room, leading the group to a conference room with a large window. The governors started when they saw a bright yellow light on the other side of the window.

            A screeching noise caused all the governors to draw back, and they backed up still more when they saw the cause. A giant's hand was carving a new exit to the building in place of the window. Yet there the woman stood, unperturbed, only a few feet from the hand. She patiently waited, and was rewarded as the hand dropped to the floor and turned palm-up.

            Noin then stepped onto the hand. "My superior, Lieutenant Zechs Marquise, is piloting the Aires mobile suit outside. He will transport us from here to the ground, but only two or three at a time. So, who will be first?"

            Her confidence was infectious, but Magadu still hesitated. One man did not. He stepped out from the crowd with firm posture and joined Noin onboard the hand. When the man turned, Magadu recognized him—it was the man whom Noin had first shot at during her performance.

            If he has that much faith, certainly I have some, Magadu thought, and walked to stand next to him. When he was ready, Noin signaled the Aires, and the hand slowly but surely moved to the ground.

            The process repeated until the entire group of governors was on the ground. "Now come with me," Noin said. "We're headed to the carrier planes, where our forces have a perimeter. Please, don't wander."

            She strode off towards the airfields. The governors followed, and Magadu moved to walk next to Noin. "Lieutenant," he said, "that was an incredible operation. How did you know where we were?"

            She smiled, glanced around, then said, "We didn't. We guessed."


	11. Finishing the Job

            "You guessed?"

            Another day, another place—and this time, it was Marshal Noventa, speaking to Treize with eyebrow raised.

            Zechs supposed that, compared to the previous inquiry into Specials' activities, Treize was moving up in the world. The last inquiry had been public; this one was private. The last one had included a large number of Alliance brass; this one was quite exclusive. General Compton, now twice disgraced, was not invited, and no one of lower rank than him was sitting on the panel. This time, Treize and Zechs were allowed to sit; to compensate, the sessions were much longer at a stretch.

            It showed simultaneously that Specials was held in higher esteem and that it was considered much more dangerous.

            "Yes sir," said Treize. "We guessed."

            "You risked the lives of those governors on a guess?" Noventa repeated.

            "Yes, sir. We did." Treize showed no hint of embarrassment or regret when he spoke. Zechs marveled at his superior. _"We" is an overstatement. He left the planning and execution of this mission completely up to me, knowing full well he'd be the one who'd have to answer for my decisions. That is having faith in your subordinate._

            "Explain the reasoning that was behind this educated approximation," Noventa continued.

            Zechs blinked. _That's an unexpected relief—Noventa himself gave us the benefit of the doubt._ Treize answered the question. "This was our reasoning. We assumed that, given the large size of the operation and the cramped conditions in the command room, the rebels would not hold the hostages there. If not there, then where? The geographic center of the building is the most logical. It allows the rebels to guard against rescue attempts from any direction equally well. The interior of the building was well away from any windows, while the rebels could keep the hostages under threat whether troops came from the first floor or the roof. The rebels were also counting on base defenses and their exterior troops to hold any rescue attempt at bay.

            "When Lieutenant Zechs entered the base, he fired three rounds into the building's top two floors. The effect was to turn the roof and top two floors into giant stairs, allowing a single operative to get to the hostages from above without being seen. It was a move the captors could not have anticipated because it had never been attempted. The infiltration of this operative was concealed amongst the chaos of a quick strike, and because it was so small the rebels were caught unaware. The rebels guarding the hostages were killed before they could figure out who was shooting at them. So that part of the operation was, in fact, very safe.

            "That was the plan and these are the facts, as proven by events and subsequent interrogations. All the planning was based only off of the information available at the moment. In other words, we read their moves, because they were the same ones we would have made."

            "That's an interesting way to put it," piped in General Septum. "You thought out what you would do to hold the Alliance for ransom? What inspired this experiment?"

            "Sir, there is a group of personnel in Specials whom I have instructed to think along precisely those lines," Treize said. "What if we were rebels—what would we do to hurt the Alliance? It's only reasonable, since counter-insurgency is the Alliance's main type of combat operation. As I said, I have men who do nothing but think of ways to disassemble the Alliance."

            Zechs stifled a smile. _Of course—everyone in Specials!_

            "Once we've figured that out," Treize continued, "we can work on ways to solve problems in advance. It was especially true in this case. I had already registered formal complaints that it seemed likely an attack was in the works. When I was ignored, I directed my planners to begin thinking about a situation like this."

            "It's disturbing that you believe your possession of such a unit gives you the right to act without consulting Alliance command," said Septum. "The rest of the Alliance has such units also. Your act was dangerous, ignored the input of other equally- or better-qualified tacticians, and endangered the lives of the governors."

            Treize lowered his head like he was fighting a wind, and Zechs knew he'd been awaiting this question. "As in the case of the attack on Pokhran, there was no time to waste. I had forces in the area that could solve the problem, so I acted. In each case, time was critical. There was no time to discuss the interception of the attack on Pokhran. There was no time to discuss possibilities with the Alliance's problem-solving unit when the governors were kidnapped. Every moment of delay in those instances would have made the problems exponentially worse. An officer is expected to act on his own initiative in cases of dire emergency. That's the purpose of having officers—to know when action must be taken, to know when to break the rules."

            He bowed his head. "I submit that these incidents were times when there was no choice but to operate outside of the Alliance hierarchy. Indeed, I shall be bolder than that: I propose that it was precisely because we acted independently and immediately that we resolved these conflicts so successfully."

            The officials on the board began to murmur amongst themselves. Zechs wondered what they were saying. Even if he couldn't know specifics, he wanted to know if they were impressed or appalled by Treize's audacity.

            _Or, most likely, both at once._

            "Keep in mind the results of our actions," Treize plowed on. "In two separate engagements, my pilots have destroyed twenty mobile suits, forty tanks, inflicted almost a hundred casualties, captured seventy more soldiers, protected a stockpile of nuclear weapons, saved the lives of the governors of Africa, and protected Alliance interests and property in the process. All at the cost of one mobile suit destroyed, three damaged, and one pilot killed. It would be extraordinary to punish such a sterling record."

            Zechs contained a wince. _As accurate as that assessment is, he may have blown it at the end. It sounds like he's telling the generals what they should think of his actions, and that's overstepping a bit._

_            Then again, he's trying to justify ignoring all the people he's talking to now. In for a penny, in for a pound—not being bold here would be worst of all._

            Now General Vente, commander of Earth-bound forces, chipped in. He held up a stack of papers so that the panel, as well as Treize and Zechs, could see it. "You seem to have made some favorable impressions. This is a formal thank-you, drafted by Governor Magadu of Somalia and signed by twenty-eight out of the thirty governors you saved. All of them are convinced that your operation was conducted with their safety as your utmost concern. It's remarkable that you were gambling with these men's lives, yet they still think so highly of you and you subordinates."

            Zechs was thankful for his mask. _I never heard about that. What a terrific PR job, Noin!_

            Marshal Noventa stood, causing everyone in the room to stand reactively. "Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada, you are excused. The members of this panel will discuss your actions and your arguments. We will recall you when we have decided your fate."

            Treize saluted, snapped a turn, and exited the room sharply, Zechs on his heels. "That went well," Treize said.

            "You really think so?" said Zechs. _Of course he does. He wouldn't have said it otherwise._

            Treize nodded. "We haven't yet gotten to the point I want, but we're working on it. Perhaps one more battle or crisis will do it." Before Zechs could ask what point Treize was referring to, his boss changed subject. "By the way, good work with the governors."

            Zechs looked down, hiding the unmasked part of his face. "Sir… I had very little to do with that. It was all Lieutenant Noin."

            "Really?" Zechs braced for his superior to push him on the issue again, but Treize restrained himself. "I'd be grateful if you'd thank her for me."

            Zechs felt that strange mix of embarrassment and protectiveness he always did when he discussed Noin with Treize. Again he couldn't explain why he felt it. He promised himself that, sooner or later, he would introduce his only two friends.

            The two of them waited there for hours, discussing things—in the most veiled of terms, of course, given the setting—until an orderly told them that the panel was prepared to see them again.

            This time no one was sitting. "Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada," said Marshal Noventa, "You have an almost diabolical ability to divide people in their opinions of you. There is no disputing that you acted without orders and in violation of the chain of command. However, there is also no disputing that you were extremely successful when you acted without orders. Your actions, despite the severe danger inherent in the circumstances, preserved the peace and stability of the Earth-sphere. For this reason, we will not punish you for your insubordination."

            _Yes!_ Zechs felt relief immediately, but the Marshal wasn't done.

            "We would caution you against such reckless actions in any lesser circumstance than has already presented itself," he continued. "Finally, we have a new mission for the Specials Mobile Suit Corps. We want you to head up a punitive expedition. The prisoners you've captured have provided some valuable information, information we want you to capitalize upon. It turns out that the enemies you defeated at Pokhran and Hargeysa were in league. Seeing as you've involved yourself with them twice, it's only fitting that you and your unit finish this conflict. Full details will be presented outside of this forum."

            He struck his gavel. "This board of inquiry is hereby closed."

            A short blur later, and Zechs and Treize were aboard Treize's shuttle. Zechs wondered at his commander's dignified excitement.

            "That could hardly have gone better," Treize said.

            "Well, we did get off without punishment," said Zechs.

            "But did you hear how he phrased it?" said Treize. "He said we shouldn't act like that "in any lesser circumstance". That's more than non-punishment. It's a tacit agreement that we should act boldly again in the future, should circumstances warrant. And now they're giving us another mission with which to prove ourselves."

            "Sir, I doubt the Alliance brass is happy with us despite the results of our missions," Zechs said. "This mission is doubtlessly something dangerous and difficult."

            "Then when we succeed on that mission," Treize said, unperturbed, "it will reflect even better on us, won't it?"

            Zechs clenched his jaw, reining in his urge to say something he'd regret later. Treize spotted the slight motion, and smiled. "You don't appreciate my confidence," he said. "Should I doubt the skills of your pilots?"

            _Curse him_, thought Zechs. _Playing on the one shred of pride that I have!_ "No, sir," he said tiredly. "All of us are dedicated, skilled, and ready to fight. But there are situations even we can't deal with. I would rather you take the measure of situations more fully before we commit to them."

            "We're committed either way, Zechs." Treize smiled. "Don't believe that I, of all people, would throw your lives away. I'm the person least willing to do that, remember? But the Alliance has given us this assignment, whether we like it or not, so we have little choice but to excel at it, don't we?"

            "Of course, sir," said Zechs, feeling foolish.

            "Our immediate task," Treize continued gently, "rather than bemoan our fate, is to size up the scenario we've been given and find a way to solve it. Lady Une and I will do a strategic overview, getting you the logistics and political aspects taken care of. Once that's complete, you will deploy with whatever Specials assets are available and accomplish the mission."

            "Yes, sir."

            It wasn't a pretty strategic picture.

            Interrogations of the prisoners had shown that the backers for the attacks on Pokhran and Hargeysa were the same group. Specials' enemy was a coalition of Arabian emirates, traditional miniature monarchies that lacked a history of cohesiveness.

            "The Arabian countries have a strange relationship with the Alliance," Treize told Zechs. "In ages past, those countries had valuable natural resources. As those resources began to run out, the nations used the profits to establish themselves as money markets and trading centers. Their locations astride Africa, Asia, and Europe benefited them as it had in olden days.

            "In more modern times, it was the Middle Eastern countries that came to the aid of the floundering colony projects. With their money and diplomatic prestige, they rallied a number of countries to support the projects, and then reaped the rewards in terms of additional prestige and national wealth."

            "But you said they lacked a history of cohesiveness," Zechs pointed out.

            "I did, and they do. The debates over the colony issues were bitter and divisive. Even after the resolutions were complete, it was left to the individual countries to decide which colonies to support, and to what extent. This led to a disparity in choices of how much to support the colonies, and thus a disparity of the returns on the colonies' prosperity."

            "And this hasn't helped to unify the area any, has it?" Zechs said ironically.

            "Not in the least," Treize said. "Frankly, the fact that three or four emirates were acting in cooperation is surprising to me."

            "About that," Zechs said. "History is fascinating, but how were any of the Middle East nations able to gather such military power without the Alliance noticing?"

            Treize continued. "Because of their money and prestige, the Alliance would have had trouble being too brutish in relations with those countries. So, in exchange for heavy monetary tithes and diplomatic recognition of Alliance supremacy, the Middle Eastern countries won the right to be self-policing. Sadly, this agreement wiped out most of the financial rewards from investing in the colonies. Neither side was happy with the agreement, but both sides played it straight. It was a convenience, nothing more."

            Zechs nodded. "So some of the Middle Eastern nations were fed up with the arrangement and decided to lash out. They were hoping to free themselves, or at least off-set the costs of self-rule."

            "That's the summary," said Treize. "In other words, we're being given a task that wouldn't have happened if the other Middle East nations had done their jobs. For that reason, it's unlikely those nations will do their jobs now."

            "That's unfortunate," said Zechs.

            "Isn't it?" said Treize. "I'm pursuing some diplomatic options, but for the time being, you should plan on having no bases provided in the area."

            "No bases?" asked Zechs. "Do it all by carrier? But that means that if we need to fall back, we won't be able to. Our ammunition and fuel will be strictly limited. That worked in the past, but that was because the battles we were in were sharp and short. This is an assault, it won't be like that."

            "The tactical situation is worse than that," Treize said grimly. "The Alliance has refrained from using satellites on the area as part of its agreement. We have only the vaguest ideas of how much resistance the enemy is going to be able to offer. The prisoners gave us the base's location, and there were scattered reports of mobile suits and artillery. But we have no specifics at all."

            Zechs shook his head. "I've been reviewing the pilot situation," he said. "We've got the instructors at our base and their class, plus the instructor corps at Victoria. The rest of OZ is scattered throughout the units of the Alliance, so we can't use them. Combined, that's barely fifteen Aires and fifty Leos. But that's an overstatement; it's risking the entire future of OZ to try something like that. Besides, the class at our base is still in training; they would be manhandled by expert pilots."

            Treize smiled. "I do think most of the world has a different idea than yours of what counts as an expert pilot. I don't believe those men will be quite up to your standards. Even so, having this be their first battle would be a mistake. We shouldn't use the class at our base. Nor the instructors at Victoria. The available Aires troops that you have aren't instructors right now, if I'm correct."

            "Fifteen Aires is not enough, we know that for a fact!" said Zechs.

            Treize frowned, deep in thought. "As I said, I'm pursuing a diplomatic solution," he said, his eyes opening but worry still on his brow. "If it doesn't pan out, I want everyone except the instructors at Victoria to engage in battle. Yes, that means the class at our base. While I agree with you wholeheartedly that they aren't ready, we have no choice about fighting this battle. We can't afford to wait more than three days at the most, or the enemy may be able to disassemble and run away. We have to catch them now, while our information is fresh."

            Zechs rubbed at where his temples would be if not for his mask. "I'll start work on tactics and battle plans," he said, dismay leaking into his voice.

            "I'll contact you soon," replied Treize, no more hope in his voice.

            It wasn't a pretty tactical picture.

            "No matter how you slice it," said Noin, summing up her and Zechs' work on the topic, "if we fight this battle with only the resources we have on hand, we're going to get mauled."

            "We can't take the Victoria instructors with us, so that leaves us with fifteen Aires and forty Leos. But only ten of those Leos are fully trained, and the training of the Aires pilots isn't quite complete either." Zechs shook his head. "And without any kind of base in the area, we'll be low on supplies. We'll have no way to regroup or rearm short of aerial drops. This is a very bad scenario."

            "It might be winnable," said Noin, "but the casualties will undercut OZ's growth. We'll lose our momentum and our ability to develop pilots at the same pace. It's bad any way you look at it."

            The room's comm. panel began beeping. Zechs went over to it and answered. He was surprised to see Treize's face. "Sir," Zechs said, embarrassed, "all the tactical scenarios are…"

            "…About to be revised," Treize interrupted.

            "What?" said Zechs, his train of thought derailed.

            "My diplomatic effort has succeeded," Treize said. "I've got you some allies."

            "Who?" asked Zechs.

            "Have you ever heard of the Maganac Corps?"

            "The cream of the Middle Eastern Police Forces is the Maganac Corps," Zechs announced to his pilots. There were twenty-five of them, counting Noin—the fifteen Aires pilots Zechs had been training, plus the ten instructors from the Specials base. He'd had to suspend lessons there, naturally. To his complete and utter shock, the students at the base hadn't protested.

            "It's a brotherhood of forty mobile suit pilots who leave behind their national identities and swear allegiance to one another. It's an anachronistic force, one of great reputation. Their mobile suits are custom-made, so it's impossible to determine their quality. Still, all accounts speak to their excellence."

            _Of course, if I had any first-hand knowledge about these people, I'd feel a lot better. The toughest part of handing down orders from above is pretending that it's all your own idea. _

_            Actually, pretending is easy. Pretending convincingly is hard._

            "So I want you to show these men the utmost respect," Zechs said firmly. "We'll be fighting alongside them, so we're going to have to trust each other. We're all soldiers, regardless of ideology or nationality, so you must behave professionally."

            His men nodded—they could respect other soldiers on that basis alone.

            "To their forty suits, we add fifteen Aires and ten Leos, making this the biggest mobile suit combat operation since the destruction of the Sanc Kingdom," he said. He even managed to keep the tremor out of his voice when he called the kingdom by name. "I'll get everyone more information as soon as it arrives. Noin, with me." With that, he turned his back to them and began walking out of the carrier. Noin followed on his heels.

            The first man to greet Zechs resembled a lion, but with darker hair. "Second Lieutenant Zechs Marquise," he said in a rumbling voice, "I am First Pilot Rashid."

            Zechs noted the formal tone and diction and bowed to his host. "First Pilot Rashid," he said, "we are honored to be able to use this base."

            "The true honor will come later," said Rashid, "when we fight alongside your men."

            "Indeed," said Zechs, rising to his full height. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to begin planning immediately."

            "Of course," said Rashid. "Commander Sada-ul has been expecting you."

            Zechs took note of the name and followed Rashid.

            The command room was attached to one of the mobile suit hangars. Zechs glanced out of windows as he kept up with Rashid, catching glimpses of the Corps' mobile suits. They looked like they were built for the desert environment, and there was little uniformity; although each was based off the same chassis, equipment was different for many of them. For example, and to Zechs' considerable surprise, some of them were equipped with oversized claws that would only be useful in melee combat. Zechs' opinion of these pilots rose.

            In stark contrast to First Pilot Rashid, Commander Sada-ul was a squat old man who was immediately unimpressive. But Zechs was more patient than that; the man's worth (or lack thereof) would come out in time.

            "So you are the representatives of Specials," Sada-ul said, appraising Zechs and Noin.

            "Sir," said Zechs, bowing, "yes, we're here to fight with your men."

            "It's proper that you think of it that way," said Sada-ul keenly. "This is a problem we must deal with. We are thankful for your assistance in this matter, but it is ours to accept or reject at will."

            "I understand," Zechs said. "Then, to supplement the forty soldiers of the Maganac Corps, I bring ten expert Leos and fifteen expert Aires."

            "Expert?"

            "They deserve such a title," Zechs assured the Arabs. "They'll prove their worth in battle."

            "Alright then," said Sada-ul. "To this combined force I am adding the Maganac Corps—forty "expert" pilots," he said, grinning slightly.

            Zechs took him seriously, nodded. "Your men's reputation precedes you," Zechs said. "I have utmost confidence in your soldiers."

            Sada-ul grunted. "We'll see whose confidence is justified," he said. "First Pilot Rashid will begin the tactical planning with you. I'll leave you all to discuss that."

            _Like my relationship with Treize,_ Zechs thought. _The commander takes care of logistics and strategy, but leaves all the mechanics to the subordinate. This should tell me something._

            Noin began the session. "We have some information as to what we're up against," she said. "It's not much, but we'll gladly share it with you."

            Rashid raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? I doubt you have anything we don't already know. It's more likely that we'll be sharing our information with you."

            "Please do," said Zechs. "What do you have?"

            "We have rough schematics of the base," Rashid said, as he walked to a computer. "We have numbers and type of forces at the base, and probable arrangement of defenses."

            "Really? How did you get that?" asked Zechs.

            "When they were building the base and gathering their forces," Rashid said, a tinge of embarrassment in his voice, "we escorted the convoys that brought the materials. As a precaution we checked the contents and kept the records."

            "In that case," said Zechs, "since you know the maximum of what they had, we can tell you what they don't have. I know exactly how many suits, tanks, and personnel they've lost in their two battles."

            "How do you know that?" said Rashid.

            "Because it was my unit that inflicted most of those casualties," said Zechs, "and we… acquired the Alliance's records of the chase in the Himalayas. Between us, we can determine what they've got."

            "Good," Rashid said. "We actually didn't know their exact casualties."

            They began their planning, though there was an obvious tension in the room. An unanswered question hung in the room that none dared ask. Zechs quickly developed an appreciation for his counterpart. Rashid was rich in wisdom for fighting in the desert. He was constantly pointing out possible maneuvers their enemies might try. Zechs was sure, however, that his and Noin's solutions to the problems Rashid presented them impressed the First Pilot.

            Finally the tension came to a head. "Rashid," said Zechs, "I'm willing to give you and your men all possible benefit of the doubt. But it wouldn't be fair to my men if I didn't get an answer to this question. Will your soldiers hesitate?"

            "Hesitate when?" asked Rashid, though everyone could see he knew what Zechs meant.

            "When we engage the enemy, and your pilots need to kill fellow Arabs," Zechs said.

            Rashid walked to the window and motioned for Zechs and Noin to follow. He gazed out into the hangar and pointed to three mobile suits. "Do you see what they're doing there?"

            Noin nodded. "They're painting over their kill marks," she said. "Looks like they did the same to their other insignia, too."

            "They did," said Rashid. "Those pilots hail from the emirates responsible. When those emirates acted on their own, they betrayed all the Arabic nations. They broke their treaties with their neighbors and they sabotaged everyone's agreement with the Alliance. Even though our pilots have disavowed loyalty to individual nations, they still represent those nations in a sense. And so they bear shame and humiliation on behalf of their countrymen."

            Zechs nodded appreciatively. _I almost wish I had brought the students from our school. They could learn a lot about virtue from this case study._

            Rashid turned fully to Zechs and Noin. "The reason we're fighting this battle is because we were responsible for policing the Middle East. We failed in that duty, so it's our obligation to clean up after ourselves. We accepted your help because we find you useful, not because we have anything in common with you. Even so, my men hold the ideals of the Maganac Corps close to their hearts. We'll fight with you like you were blood brothers, and against our enemies like they were devils. My men won't hesitate."

            Zechs bowed. "Forgive me for asking," he said penitently. "I'm sorry for doubting the integrity of your soldiers."

            "You apologize too much," Rashid answered gruffly. At last the formality was draining from his attitude. "Like you said, it wouldn't be fair for your pilots not to know about us. I just hope we can settle this quickly, and without too many casualties either way."

            Noin smiled. "Agreed. Let's get back to planning."

            Zechs and Rashid stood together at the head of the briefing room. The room was large enough to accommodate all the Specials soldiers and the entirety of the Maganac Corps. The two forces did not mix.

            "It's time to fulfill our vows," Rashid began. "Five hours from now, we begin an assault on the rebels. We won't stop until the enemy is crushed and their base demolished. None must escape. We have the base on constant surveillance, but we must strike swiftly before they attempt something.

            "The assault will be spearheaded by the Maganac Corps. As you know, our specialty is the suppression barrage. For this reason, we will advance first upon a single front of the enemy base, eliminating targets as they appear until we breach the perimeter."

            Rashid turned; Zechs stepped up and spoke. "The Specials' specialty is small-unit combat. Thus, our ten Leos will be divided into five-man teams on each flank of the Maganac force. Your job is to keep their flanks clear, sweep the outer perimeter, and dull any attacks from those angles until the Corps can respond."

            Rashid stepped up again. "For the durations of the battle, one unit of Aires suits will perform high-altitude patrol. If anyone tries to escape the base without a fight, the Aires will put an end to them."

            "Cunha, that's you," interjected Zechs. _He's attentive and quick-witted. Not the best pilot, but he doesn't get distracted._ "Use your superior mobility to strike as quickly as targets appear."

            "The other ten Aires will remain on stand-by until we enter the base," Rashid continued. "Once we're inside, however, we'll need them. Specials Leos will continue around and seal the outside of the base, while the Corps will break into fire teams and move into the base. Destroy any opposition as you come to it. If you encounter something too dangerous… that's where Specials come in."

            Zechs spoke up again. "Specials Aires will be in two groups," he said. "One led by myself, and one led by Noin. Lead Pilots in the Corps will be able to call upon the teams to perform strikes on select targets. Our enemies have never fought Aires before, so these attacks should be very damaging and distracting. Hopefully, they will break up the enemy enough for the Corps to push through."

            "Does everyone understand then? Alright, we move out soon. Everyone, to your suits!"

            And Zechs smiled as his little game of diplomacy came to an end. _I offered for Specials to behave either way—for either us to be the first wave and the Corps support, or for the Corps to go in first and Specials support. Of course, tactically it's a no-brainer; you use line troops to hold the enemy and mobile hard-hitters to strike as needed. Still, I had to offer to show my respect for Rashid._

_            We're equals, so it wouldn't be right for me to tell him to give his troops the more dangerous jobs, however tactically correct. I had to give him the chance to choose the jobs for his pilots. As far as I can tell, it worked._

_            Maybe I won't be so bad at this diplomacy stuff._

            The pilots from both forces filed out. Zechs turned to Rashid and offered a hand. Rashid shook firmly. "To battle," said Zechs.

            "See you on the other side," said Rashid, and he, too, left.

            Zechs moved quickly to his own forces. Much to his surprise, a cargo plane was just landing. He spotted Noin taking a call. As he walked to her, he caught her attention and asked, "What's this about?"

            Noin held a finger. "Yes sir. Of course. Thank you, sir, I'm sure Zechs will be happy. Yes. By your leave, sir." She hung up, then turned. "Zechs, did we install the latest targeting software on our Aires suits?"

            Zechs thought back. "I'm sure we did."

            She nodded. "Then Colonel Treize is pleased to report that he has answered your request."

            According to his Aires' instruments, the rebels locked on to Zechs' attack group of Aires at about 0430 hours, local time.

            At 0500, the fifteen Aires got within attack range of the rebel base.

            At 0501, the first combat testing of the model 01b missile launcher occurred.

            At 0502, thirty missiles breached the base perimeter.

            At 0503, the entirety of the Maganac Corps emerged from camouflaged positions and loosed a suppression barrage into the sudden gap in the rebel defenses.

            Zechs smiled despite the carnage his forces were causing. _The missile launcher is heavy, so I had to order my forces to dump them the moment they'd fired their missiles. Still, the huge firepower boost is invaluable. I'll have plenty of feedback for Treize's allies._

            The comm. system filled with chatter.

            "Mobile section," barked Cunha, "targets escaping, bearing 0-4-6. With me."

            And Rashid: "Keep up the barrage. Team one, angle left. Team five, advance and in."

            From his vantage point behind the battle, Zechs observed the steady advance of the Maganac Corps, with his own Leos covering their flanks. Zechs was very impressed by their coordination and mutual support. It was obvious that the Corps was actually outnumbered, but the forest of firepower they threw up was enough to keep the rebels from getting good shots. The Corps was steadily advancing, pushing the enemy back into their own base.

            "Noin," said Zechs, inspired suddenly, "they're taking cover from the barrage behind their walls. Take your squad on a crossing attack with mine. We'll flush them out."

            "Yes, sir," she barked, falling into formalities in the heat of battle.

            "First pilot," Zechs said, "we're going to disrupt the enemies covering behind their wall."

            "Roger that," Rashid said. "We'll coordinate."

            And Zechs led his pilots, confident that Rashid would handle his troops as needed.

            Though his display, he tracked the various elements as they moved. The Corps had destroyed that side of the base's defenses and defenders, and had advanced to the walls of the compound. Now, though, they couldn't proceed; enemies had massed on either side of the gap, ready to fire at the first Maganac to cross the threshold.

            But, if Zechs and Noin were to pounce on those enemies…

            "Now," said Zechs. _No need to shout over the comm., lose composure in the middle of the battle. This is the way to lead men: with such cool confidence that they follow without needing to know why. Their trust is such that they do what you tell them to instantly, secure in the knowledge that you have a reason._

            He brought his Aires in low, the lead pilot in a tight wedge-shape. The wedge limited his forces' field of fire compared to a shoulder-to-shoulder arrangement, but it also reduced the unit's overall profile.

            _That's very important. After this pass every enemy who survived will be throwing gobs of firepower up at us, up until the moment the Corps makes its entrance._

            Zechs eased back a bit, angling the Aires so it would just clear the wall. His inner self counted down the moments… and then he was in the clear, gun blazing.

            He and his unit were traveling too fast and too close to their targets to aim precisely, so they simply kept the triggers pulled down. Zechs struggled against G-forces and recoil to correct his aim. Bullets poured from the five Aires.

            Tracer rounds flashed by Zechs' monitor—but not from the ground. In his peripheral vision, he saw Noin's unit passing to the left of his own, hosing down enemy suits with their weapons.

            The two Aires squads met in the middle and zipped on past one another, and on both sides, bullet-ridden mobile suits crashed to the ground.

            "Maganacs, move!" Rashid's voice thundered over the comm.. The enemy hadn't yet recovered from the strafing runs. Zechs couldn't see it happening, as he was concentrating on escape, but he could guess.

            Enemy IFF codes began to vanish from his console.

            "Noin," said Zechs, "bring your unit back around behind the Corps. Be ready to lend support as needed."

            "Yes sir," she said.

            Zechs watched the phosphor dots on his display, each representing someone's mobile suit. With the front gates breached, the Maganacs were flooding into the base and pushing the enemies back. The base's buildings and hangars became new sources of cover for the enemy.

            The calls began.

            "Aires one, enemies at grid 53."

            "Aires two, targets at grid 42."

            "Aires two…"

            "Aires one…"

            Those weren't the only calls filling the comm. waves, however. There was more chatter than Zechs would ever have tolerated from his own soldiers. He had to work hard to tune it all out.

            One example he found particularly poignant:

            "We keep calling in the Aires to do all our work for us."

            "Hey, I don't need glory. If the enemy keeps hunkering down, we'll call the Aires on their butts all day long."

            Still, even if there was less formality amongst the Maganac Corps, it had no discernible impact on their effectiveness.

            Surprise had long since faded; the rebels knew their enemies now. It made no difference. The Corps and Specials formed the old "hammer and anvil", with the Corps pinning the rebels in place and the Specials smashing them.

            Finally, with a single squad of mobile suits still standing, the surviving rebels broadcast, "We surrender!"

            There was a moment of silence from the Corps and the Specials. Zechs' mind worked furiously—should he accept the surrender or should Rashid?

            _This is their fight_, he remembered.

            "First Pilot, I will follow your lead," Zechs said.

            Rashid spoke immediately thereafter. "I, First Pilot Rashid of the Maganac Corps, accept your surrender."

            And, although there was still much to do to disarm and take into custody the rebels, in Zechs' mind everything was finished.

            Rashid and Sada-ul watched the Specials transports as they warmed up for departure. The battle had long since ended, with Specials and the Maganac Corps enduring some minor damage to their suits but no losses. The Specials had allowed the Corps to keep the prisoners, asking only for copies of their interrogation records.

            The whines from the transports' engines began to rise in pitch and volume. Rashid shook his head in disgust. "What a waste. So many of our countrymen dead… and all of it preventable."

            "I was more concerned about the soldiers the Alliance sent out to us," Sada-ul said. "Did you notice how atypical they were? How different from the rest of the Alliance?"

            Rashid nodded. "They seemed almost eager to get into battle. But by the same token, they were methodical, courageous, courteous, and deadly."

            "It was filled with dangerous men," Sada-ul agreed. "But I don't think you realize how dangerous yet."

            Rashid frowned. This couldn't be good.

            "The commander of the Special Mobile Suit Corps is one Treize Khushrenada."

            Rashid's eyes shot open. "No," he said instantly.

            Sada-ul nodded. "I kept myself from telling you. Please forgive my dishonesty; you deserved to know, but I was afraid of what you might do. Or not do. I'm sorry, but this had to be done."

            Rashid looked away to hide his bitterness. "What irony… we fought alongside OZ, the very men we're gearing up to destroy!"

            "It's worse than that," said Sada-ul. "We fought alongside OZ because we needed to appear loyal a little longer. But to do that we had to kill men who were also trying to destroy OZ."

            "So we sacrificed them to maintain our own position, keep our own shot at OZ alive." Rashid shook his head. "What a dirty business."

            "Face facts, Rashid," said Sada-ul, eyes gleaming. "They compromised themselves. They committed their assets too soon. They exposed themselves too early. Once they came out into the open, we had to snuff them as quickly as possible. The longer we let them continue their activities, the longer we let the Alliance build up for a real invasion, and the more likely the rest of our assets will be exposed."

            Rashid sighed. "For eighteen years we've built up our forces, fortified our bases, infiltrated personnel into the right positions… and, with three months of stupidity, our own comrades destroy half of it! Couldn't they have waited just two more years? Couldn't they have waited until Master Quatre arrived…?"

            Sada-ul nodded in agreement. "With Master Quatre's help, we could have established a perimeter from the Nile to the Indus where no Alliance or OZ troops dare enter. Now, we just have to hope that we can salvage something from this disaster. Hopefully we'll have enough to aid Master Quatre when he does come."

            Rashid grunted an affirmative. "And we're going to have to keep an eye on this Zechs person. It scares me that OZ has soldiers like that."

            Sada-ul smirked. "If all of OZ was like that, we wouldn't have a chance. But then again, if all of OZ was like that, would we even have to destroy it?"

            Rashid raised an eyebrow. "Zechs is competent and he treated us honorably. Even so, there's something… disquieting about that man. I don't look forward to facing him in battle."

            "And coming from you, that's saying something," said Sada-ul. "That's why we have Master Quatre, isn't it?"

            Rashid carefully kept his treasonous thoughts to himself, but they echoed in his skull. _Against one such as this Zechs person, even Master Quatre would have his hands full._

            The Specials carriers lifted off, and Rashid willed them out of sight. The further away they went from the Middle East Security Corridor, the happier he'd be.

            There was a tense silence between Zechs and Noin as they walked down the hallway. Treize had permanent offices reserved at Lake Victoria and the Specials' first base, and had been waiting for them when they returned, victorious, to Victoria.

            Zechs wanted to say something to Noin, but he could think of nothing that would work. He just had nothing to say.

            _'Noin, be careful, this is my boss'—she knows that already!_

_            'This really matters to me'—of course._

_            'Be on guard, this is a dangerous man'—but I don't want to set up my only friends as enemies._

            So he said nothing.

            He knocked courteously, entered upon command. "Sir, Lieutenant Zechs reporting as ordered."

            "Come, sit, my friend," said Treize gently. Zechs saw Treize's eyes dart—just once—over to Noin before refocusing on Zechs. Treize was letting Zechs handle this at his own pace.

            "Congratulations on a job well done," Treize said. "The Alliance is processing our reports. It seems that the Alliance didn't expect us to succeed—and they certainly didn't expect us to succeed as much and as quickly as we did. I can't overemphasize how important it was for us to complete that mission."

            Zechs nodded. "The Alliance wanted to see how well we did when we couldn't choose our battles. They wanted to make sure we would follow their orders."

            "More than anything," Treize said, "they wanted to ensure that we could subordinate our interests to theirs."

            Zechs frowned under his mask. "But, sir, did they have any objections to our alliance with the Maganac Corps? Didn't that mess up their little test?"

            "On the contrary," said Treize, "I think it helped show we weren't out to hog the glory."

            Finally, an opening! "Speaking of not hogging the glory," said Zechs, "I'd like to introduce Second Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin. She's been my second in many of our fights, and she's been running the mobile suit training at Lake Victoria. She's the most reliable person I know, and a good friend."

            Treize extended his hand across to Noin, offering it to her as an equal. She shook it firmly. "A friend of Zechs'? That's a high compliment indeed," said Treize. His face bore respect, and a touch of a smile. "The pleasure is mine."

            Zechs glanced at Noin. Her face was neutral, appraising; the flattery had seemed to fall off her without effect. "Hello, Colonel. We meet at last."

            "What do you think?" Treize asked. "What impact do you think our success has had at Alliance headquarters?"

            "I think you've made some people furious," she said bluntly. "Quite aside from those officers who hoped we'd bleed ourselves in the effort. There were other officers in the Alliance who were hoping for a chance to invade the Middle East security corridor. It wasn't just emirates who weren't satisfied with the security arrangement. Our success has foiled them.

            "Not only that, but by using the Maganac Corps, we've let the Middle East nations off the hook. Before our attack, the Alliance could claim correctly that the Middle East nations were not doing their job. Now the nations have a triumph of internal security that they can point to in future negotiations. This won't please some members of the Alliance."

            Zechs' eyes widened. _Neither she nor Treize mentioned this before, and it certainly didn't occur to me!_ He turned his gaze back to Treize, whose smile had grown. "It was a calculated risk," Treize said. "We didn't have the manpower to take out the emirates, not without massive casualties. Any losses at all would have slowed OZ's growth in addition to depleting our manpower."

            "So you risked Scylla," said Zechs, illumination coming. "Accept the hatred of some segments in the Alliance in order to gain superior positioning and influence."

            "And to avoid losses," Noin added.

            "That's exactly right," said Treize. "OZ made some enemies today, but it was well worth it."

            Zechs glanced back and forth between his friends and saw their faces ease a bit. At this, he breathed deeply in relief. He couldn't imagine how painful it would be for his only friends to hate each other.

            Treize breathed deeply. "I would like to reward you for your excellent service, Noin. As I understand it, Zechs was on the cusp of completing Aires training for you and your class. I think the engagement we just had was an apt final exam. Therefore, now that you've graduated at the top of your class, I would like to offer you your choice of assignments. You may have any job it's in my power to give you."

            "Sir," she said evenly, "I have my answer already. I would like to return to Lake Victoria. I want to continue to be OZ's teacher at Victoria."

            Treize smiled. "I'm delighted to hear that. I will honor your request."

            _Of course you will,_ Zechs thought. _It's exactly what you wanted her to do. Some reward this is, letting her do what you want her to do!_

            But when his eyes went back to Noin, she wore an appreciative expression. _Then again, it does show a lot of trust in your subordinate. If you can count on her to choose what you need her to do..._

As Treize and Noin moved on to discuss other business, Zechs struggled to restrain a slight smile. _Of all the possible outcomes from this meeting, this is probably among the best._


	12. As Corsica Rises

"Corsica?"

Treize nodded to Zechs as the carrier sped on. "Corsica. It was one of the first mobile suit development grounds. It's been underused for the past fifteen years. Now the Alliance wants to redevelop it as a major production facility for the Leo."

"Corsica is awfully close to Europe," said Zechs tactfully.

Treize smiled. "Yes, Romefeller got the contract for the Corsica project," he said, confirming his friends' suspicions. "They're bankrolling the facility and pocketing the profits. Remember, anything we can do to push the Alliance further into mobile suits benefits us. So we have to make sure everything goes smoothly."

Zechs nodded thoughtfully. It was only logical.

"Given how much it matters to us, I pushed hard to have Specials administer the construction project. I was successful. That's why you, Zechs, are overseeing the project."

"What?" he blinked, surprised. "Why me?"

Treize smiled. "I know what you're thinking. Why take a gifted soldier, the most gifted soldier, off of the front lines? Zechs, though your abilities as a pilot are peerless, you would do well to broaden a bit. There is more to command than piloting. Logistics, morale, long-term factors matter also. You would benefit from learning some of these. It will also help your record with the Alliance. After several combat assignments, it's healthy for you to change gears with a project."

"As you wish, sir," said Zechs reluctantly.

"Besides," said Treize, leaning forward, "the next conflicts are going to be different. They'll be in underdeveloped areas. They'll be low-level uprisings and guerilla campaigns. They'll be small raids and incursions that demand ever-stronger responses. In other words, they will drag on and on if OZ doesn't intervene."

"And you want them to go on," Zechs said. "The longer these conflicts last, the more military power the Alliance will need. They'll be forced to construct many more mobile suits and call on member nations more."

"The more they struggle," said Treize, "the more they need from us, and the closer to their throats we get."

Zechs nodded in comprehension. "So it's Corsica."

"And Corsica is yours, to do with as you wish."

It was remarkably nice language for a man who'd just forced new and difficult work on his subordinate.

So it wasn't Zechs' first choice of assignments, but it had to be done. He resolved to do it, and do it well.

Task number one was to find someone to teach him about mobile suit construction.

Shortly after his arrival Zechs sent a clear message to his staff at Corsica. He would listen to anyone—if they had merit. Zechs made clear their previous records and ranks didn't matter, only their current ideas.

It took two weeks to break their attitudes of careerism and their jockeying for power. Two weeks of non-production that Zechs had to sacrifice to line his men up properly. When he was satisfied with them, he threw their records out again and started over with his opinions.

After another week, he selected two as his teachers. Then the work really began.

Zechs knew just about everything there was to know about the Leo's operations, but he didn't have the first clue how it was put together. This became obvious when he badly flubbed a problem.

Flight Officer Walker was one of Zechs' 'instructors'. He was a steady soldier who had started off working in the mobile suit industry. Through talent, perseverance, and the aid of OZ (in exchange for fealty) he'd earned the right to pilot the machines he'd helped build.

"Sir, we have a logistical problem," he said one day as he entered Zechs' office. "We've got a ton of equipment failures. The entire line of machines needs replacing."

Zechs rubbed his mask. Another one. "What machines this time?"

"Everything we have that can join titanium to gundanium is totally shot. They need to be replaced."

Zechs blinked. "Titanium I know. Gundanium isn't on any periodic table I've seen."

Walker looked embarrassed. "Sorry, sir, I'll explain. Gundanium isn't an element, it's an alloy, very special stuff. It's very dense because of how it's made, so you never need much. It's like spiderweb—strong, durable, high tensile strength. We use a little of it in the joints of every Leo and Aires. Without gundanium, mobile suits wouldn't be practical. A mobile suit's arms and legs are so heavy you have to have superb support to keep the suit together. Gundanium gives us that."

"So why don't we use more of it?" asked Zechs, intrigued.

"The same reason we don't use spiderweb," said Walker. "Not enough supply. Production is limited because making the stuff is a real pain. All of the elements have to be combined at molten temperatures and mixed properly; it has to be homogeneous. Then you have to keep it all in place as it cools; if the metals separate, you create brittle spots in the mix. After all, a rod of gundanium is only as strong as its weakest point. If the mix separates, there's no point to the process."

"So it has to be done in space," said Zechs, reaching the conclusion. "If you tried to make it on Earth, no matter how refined your techniques, gravity would cause some shifting of the metals. The mixture would be imperfect. But in space's zero gravity, everything stays in place."

Walker nodded. "That's it. That's one of the reasons it's so expensive. It doesn't make economic sense to try and use it in more places. I've dreamed sometimes about mobile suits with lines of gundanium in their armor, but it just isn't feasible. You'd never be able to mass-produce them."

"Is gundanium used anywhere else?" Zechs said.

"It's used a little in shuttle construction," Walker said vaguely, searching for answers. "Wait, I just remembered. They use it to line the rims of beam sabers."

"Really?" said Zechs, surprised. "I suppose it makes sense. I was always surprised at how a saber that can cut effortlessly through titanium didn't burn itself out." He laughed. "That would explain why beam sabers are so rare. The Alliance doesn't have the tactics to use them, and they're expensive to manufacture."

"Two beam sabers cost as much as an entire Leo," said Walker, "and all because of the gundanium requirements."

Zechs considered for a moment. "What if a mobile suit was made entirely out of gundanium?"

Walker's eyes widened. "Sir, don't even joke about it!"

"Is it that far-fetched?" said Zechs.

"Trying to make mobile suits out of… it would bankrupt Romefeller!" Walker exclaimed.

Zechs smiled. "Well, we should at least consider it. A prudent soldier aims for accuracy but is sure to consider the worst his enemies can do."

Walker shook his head. "Honestly, sir, it's not funny. A mobile suit entirely of gundanium would be incredibly durable. You'd have to pound it all day to destroy it. Because it's so strong you don't need as much of it to provide lots of protection. That means you save a lot of weight and space for other things."

"What other things?"

"Ammunition, fuel, more sensors, more sensitive controls… a gundanium-suit would be a technological marvel! It could take on squadrons of our suits and beat them. Sir, I know it slows us down, but let's be glad gundanium is so expensive."

Zechs nodded. "And let's hope we never meet a gundam in battle."

Zechs learned quickly, as he always had. To his surprise, it turned out to be one of his easier assignments. Managing a factory was very different from piloting a mobile suit. Less was happening at any single time, but problem after problem arose over time.

He was used to making snap decisions. Now, even taking the time to apply his full intellect to a problem, he was still able to rapidly make his choice and dispatch the crisis. It kept him from being overwhelmed, and when he made a bad decision it was discovered quickly.

All the while, he kept an ear and a quarter of brain turned to world events. Minor rebellions, ignited by the actions of the emirates, had started boiling over in Asia. Fighting had spread in the Himalayas as the Alliance bumbled its pursuit from the Pokhran incident. The longer the Alliance took in its pursuit, the more heavy-handed it became. The natural result was ever-increasing brutality with a subsequent rise in rebelliousness.

The rugged terrain of the Himalayas and the Gobi desert played into the rebels' favor. To this point, the vastness of China had swallowed the Alliance as it had swallowed all previous conquerors. The Alliance maintained its strangleholds in the east, suppressing the population and operating normally. In the west of China, where the population is spread and the country is wild, the Alliance adopted laissez faire. It was impractical to control. So the peasants lived their lives unchanged. The Alliance's conquering the world did not affect the 5000 year-old routines they lived with.

Now, in their clumsiness, the Alliance's first contact with these peoples was trampling their rice paddies. It was not a great way to impress the peasants.

It stood to reason that the peasants couldn't much hurt the Alliance, for the same reason the Alliance had no interest in them: they had no money or resources. There wasn't even a Mao Tse-Tung or other leader to rally the people. The revolution, if it could be called such, was not televised.

The fact remained that no Alliance search group dared stay overnight inside a village.

Mobile suits remained the trump card. No weapon the peasants owned or could steal countered the few Leos dispatched into China. Using Leos created new problems, however, most of which involved logistics and security.

Zechs read with astonishment how several trucks carrying Leo ammunition had vanished somewhere in China.

"What do you suppose a Chinese peasant village uses Leo ammo for?" he asked Walker.

Walker smiled. "They probably sell it back to the Alliance."

China, though vast, was not the only site of rebellion. It bubbled south throughout the Himalayas. Anywhere the terrain was rough, anywhere it was easier to hide than to track, fighting flared up.

"How does the Alliance plan to stop them?" said Zechs to Treize. Treize was talking from one of his estates, and he spoke while twirling his rapier.

"I don't know what the Alliance plans," said Treize. He parried an imaginary attack, followed with a mock riposte. "They could have been gentler in the beginning, but it's too late for that now. When you attack and conquer, you only have two ways to bring the public to you. The first is to act as a liberator, actively trying to help the peoples you encounter, make them benefit from your presence. The Alliance botched this. They didn't even adopt a 'just-passing-through' message, which might have been enough. By now the rebels the Alliance was hunting are spread throughout a hundred villages in a hundred thousand square kilometers of ground."

"You said there were two ways," said Zechs. "What's the other?"

"Make them fear you," said Treize. He exploded into a lunge, skewering his mental adversary. "The Roman Empire stood for a thousand years, bringing peace, prosperity, learning, and development to everything in their world-view. They did this sometimes through peaceful methods, and oftentimes the other way. When the Romans defeated Carthage, for example, they didn't just sack the city. They burned it. When the fires were out, they moved through the city and slaughtered all they found. Everyone who escaped was rounded up and sold into slavery in other lands. After the city was devoid of life, the Romans moved through the ruins and demolished any structure still standing, until no stone sat upon another. Finally, they sowed the Earth with salt so that nothing could ever grow there, so that the city could never be rebuilt. All so that Carthage would never again threaten Rome's dominion."

Treize calmly wiped his sword of imaginary blood and sheathed it. "One alternative available to the Alliance is to slaughter the inhabitants of any village that opposes them. If the next village fights, you slaughter that one, too. You make sure, by using native couriers or other methods, that all the villages know what you're doing. If you are consistent enough, thorough enough, and publicized enough, fear becomes your ally. The villages will turn the rebels in rather than risk your wrath."

Zechs swallowed, blinking. "Sir, you… you wouldn't actually do that, would you?"

"I'm not a fan of scorched-earth," he said solidly. "A commander considers all courses of actions, even the ones he would never undertake. I've thought of it, but it so repulses me I hope I must never consider it again."

"Thank you, sir," said Zechs.

"Zechs, I appreciate your status reports. Please continue as my knight. I can sense you have other matters to attend to. Carry on."

"Yes, sir." Zechs hung up, wondering if his friend and the fiend who'd just advocated genocide were the same person.

Time flew by rapidly. Months passed as the Alliance offensive continued, the factory came together, and the first mobile suits began to flow from the doors.

"The Alliance transport division is responsible for the shipments," Treize told Zechs. "However, their security is suspect."

"Even I know that," said Zechs.

"What you may not know," said Treize, "is that several plots are already in progress to steal newly-built Leos. My sources are working on the problem. I'll have details within the week. How you deal with them, Zechs, is up to you."

"Thank you, sir," said Zechs, even though he wasn't sure how thankful he was. Counter-espionage work was another field in which he had no experience.

He smiled. Treize was a real jerk, forcing him to do things he wasn't good at, making Zechs develop new skills. Curse the man.

Now, if he wanted to hijack some Leos, what would he do?

Everything was prepared. Those who needed buying were bought. Those who needed killing were dead. Those who weren't yet aware of the conspiracy would be dead shortly; the remainder would never catch up. Everything was planned out.

Only two things were unaccounted for, but only because they were unknown to the conspirators. The first was the traitor. The problem with spies is that there's no way to know how many people they're lying to; for them, a good double-cross is just the necessary prelude to a successful triple-cross.

The other was Zechs Marquise.

Just before firing, Zechs edged the Leo forward a touch.

Wham!

The recoil from the oversized gun on his Leo's shoulder rocked the chassis backwards. Zechs shook his head in disappointment. _My timing is still off_, he thought.

He was working on a new technique for his piloting. Leos were capable of mounting large cannons known as "dober guns" on their shoulders. These heavy weapons could blast through barriers and fortresses a Leo rifle would struggle to destroy. However, dober guns were enormous, and Leos were frequently overpowered by their weapons. There had been several embarrassing training incidents where pilots had been knocked over by the recoil of their weapons. Most pilots had dealt with the recoil by planting the Leo's legs widely; in so doing, they abandoned their mobility.

Zechs, in his arrogance, wasn't just trying to deal with the recoil. He was trying to negate it. If he could get the timing right, a precise forward motion would balance out the dober gun's recoil. This would make Zechs far more maneuverable, since it would slash his recovery time from each shot, and it would let him put several shots on the same location.

_All that, of course, is contingent on getting the timing right. I'm not there yet._

He tried again. This time he was late, his maneuver balancing the Leo only after it rocked off its heels. Zechs grimaced. _I never expected this to be easy. Few things of value are._

"Sir," said the base monitor over the comm., "a call from His Excellency."

"Put him through," Zechs said. He listened to his friend dispassionately. "I see," he said at last. "Thank you, sir. I'll handle it."

He began walking his Leo back towards the main base. A few moments of fiddling, and he had two soldiers on the line with him. "Juno, Walker, meet me at the airstrip. We're heading out in the number two carrier."

"Yes sir," they confirmed.

"Ground crews," he said, changing frequencies, "Lightning one. Drop what you're doing and fuel up the number two carrier. I want it ready for launch within twenty minutes."

"It'll be ready in fifteen, sir!" was the enthusiastic reply.

Zechs smiled. _I can't be that gratifying to work for… can I?_ "Confirmed, and thank you," he said. "I'll appreciate every second you give me."

He walked the Leo into the carrier. The ground crews were working feverishly, tying his mobile suit down in moments. He exited the Leo and made for the carrier's cockpit. Walker and Juno met him inside. "What's this about, sir?" asked Walker.

"You'll see," said Zechs. "Taxi out and prepare for takeoff. In the meantime, monitor the Alliance distress frequencies. I believe something's about to come up, and we'll want to hear it."

"Like what?" said Walker, still not understanding.

"This is not the only base on Corsica, even though it's the most important," Zechs said. "The transport division wanted nothing to do with Specials. Their headquarters is in the main Alliance base in southern Corsica."

"The transport division?" said Walker. Then his eyes grew wide.

"Got something, sir," said Juno. "It's distress from… sir! They're stealing the Leos!"

"Follow them," said Zechs.

The carrier was already warmed up and ready for launch. It was airborne almost before the rebels' carrier.

"Why isn't the Alliance following them?" said Walker.

Juno listened intently while flying. "It appears the rebels self-destructed one of the Leos in the hangar. No one will be following from that base, not for a while."

"I want an intercept course, maximum speed," said Zechs, refocusing his agents. "This carrier has no weapons, so we'll have to run them down."

"How can we do that, sir?" said Juno.

"We only have one mobile suit onboard," said Zechs. "We're faster, and they'll run out of fuel first."

"We're closing on the rebels," said Walker. "Estimated time to catch them is… three hours."

"Belay that," said Juno. "They know we're here. The rebels are accelerating and changing course. Time to intercept is…"

"In your hands," said Zechs. "It's on you, men. Stick to that carrier. As long as we can see them, they can't go home without exposing their friends. Eventually you'll run them out of fuel. That's when I'll get involved. The rest is up to you."

He walked out of the cockpit, his motions smooth and calm.

When he was out of sight and hearing, he shuddered, a hand over his heart. It pounded in his chest.

_Treize has a lot of confidence in me,_ he thought to himself. _I need to have some of that confidence in my subordinates—and myself._

Zechs returned to his Leo, got in, and prepped himself for battle. Once he was ready, he turned on his instruments and patched himself in to the carrier's controls.

The chase was not dramatic, just a series of dots chasing each other across phosphor screens. Nevertheless, the longer it went on, the harder Zechs' heart beat. On it went, one hour, two hours three hours fourhours…

The rebels tried everything. They used terrain, they used clouds, they used electronic countermeasures. They stayed away from Alliance bases, they went over the Mediterranean Sea, and they kept on running. It didn't matter. Zechs had the bloodhounds on his side.

Finally, as the fifth hour began to approach, the enemy carrier began to slow and lose altitude.

Zechs was cautious at first. The rebels had tried feints before, faking to be low on fuel before accelerating again. This time, as far as Zechs and his men could tell, it was for real.

"Match their speed," he said, the first words he'd spoken in hours. "Position us above and behind them. When they skim the surface, open the cargo doors."

"Sir!" said Juno. "A combat drop with an Aires is one thing, but with a Leo…"

"Don't drop me from high altitude," Zechs said, "and I'll be fine."

"Roger, sir," said Walker. "Alright, opening doors. Three, two, one… Whenever you're ready, sir."

Zechs had one display repeating the carrier's camera. As he watched, the rebel carrier dipped low, lower, ever lower. When he saw dirt and grass erupt from the belly, he released his straps.

With the heavy dober gun on his shoulder, it was a difficult trick to land safely. But, using lightning-fast blasts of his thrusters, he managed.

Zechs landed heavily, the best he could manage with the overbearing weight of the dober gun. Ahead of him, the carrier completed its crash landing. Zechs made for the fallen machine, shouldering the dober. He ticked off the range in his head. 2 kilometers… 1.9 klicks… 1.8… moving forward, ever forward.

As he expected, the rebels were trying to evacuate from the carrier. He smiled grimly. They'd stolen the Leos trucks and all. In the confines of the carrier, there'd be no room to move around. They'd have to unload the Leos before they could stand.

Zechs flicked on his targeting display. With a predator's ease he brought the dober gun to bear. One of the trucks was backing down the ramp. Zechs settled the reticule on the truck.

It was too easy.

For Zechs, even a second of hesitation was a long pause. He couldn't help it. _They're so defenseless!_

They were enemy soldiers, though. They would kill him, given the shot; killing them before they could defend themselves was no different than killing them after. Giving the enemy a sporting chance never led to anything good.

He hesitated no longer.

The truck, mobile suit and all, immolated. The explosive shell from the dober gun ignited the fuel and ammunition, touching off a firestorm.

Zechs almost didn't notice the effect of his shot. Something more immediate had his attention.

_My timing is on._

There had been no backwards motion from the Leo's shot. Zechs had cancelled the recoil. He fired again instantly, as much to test his new technique as to complete his mission.

He was spot on again. The rebels couldn't appreciate this display of skill; they were more concerned with its effects. The second shot hit the top of the ramp, partially inside the carrier. The damage ensured no truck inside could escape.

Zechs spoke on the "open" frequency. "Rebels aboard stolen carrier: this battle is over. You are defeated. Surrender now or die on the spot. Respond." He counted off three seconds, then shouldered the dober again. "As you wish."

"Wait!" a panicked voice returned. "If we surrender, will you guarantee…"

"No," he said, cutting the other off. "I will only guarantee this: I will not kill you, nor anyone in the Special Mobile Suit Corps."

"That's not good enough," haggled the voice. "We can still destroy your precious Leos…"

A whoosh sound echoed over both ends of the communication—the sound of a dober gun shot just missing its target.

"I don't have to miss," said Zechs, void of emotion. "I am a soldier. I'll treat you as such. Surrender now."

He was midway through a new three-count when the voice came back, "We surrender! You, Specials pilot, we surrender to you."

"Very well," said Zechs, prying his fingers from the trigger. He cancelled his first instinct. _I'll not turn these men over to the __Alliance__. I promised them, and they surrendered to me._ "Juno," he said, "summon the nearest Specials troops. We're taking these men into custody. Walker, call up the transport division. Their Leos and carrier are damaged but mostly intact. Oh, one Leo and one truck are destroyed, but all else is in good order."

"Yes, sir," said Juno promptly.

Zechs breathed slowly, calming his nerves. He kept his dober trained on the carrier just in case, but things were under control.

This was the first time he'd operated completely independently. Treize had only provided him with information; all else was left to Zechs. And, depending upon how the inevitable hearing went, things looked successful.

_Are you happy now, Treize? Your evil plot, forcing me to be a better officer, has worked. You must be giggling._

It was a funny image.

The hearing was convened and conducted with utmost haste. It was routine by now.

The trying officers were less numerous now, the facts presented with more rapidity and accuracy. Zechs shook his head. Didn't they realize that every time they let Treize open his mouth, Specials benefited and others suffered?

Apparently not; there was Treize yet again, his wondrous blend of truth and lies intoxicating the Alliance top brass.

"So, Lieutenant Zechs was already fueling up to come see me. That's when he heard of the raid, and that's when he responded," Treize said.

"One thing bothers me," said General Septum. _That man hates us almost as much as General Compton,_ Zechs though,_ but he's much smarter about it. Plus, he sees we have some value—he just wishes to bring us to heel._ "Even if he was on his way to see you, Lieutenant Colonel Treize, how could he get a mobile suit warmed and equipped so quickly?"

There was a simple, truthful answer to that question—Zechs had been on maneuvers, and brought his suit when he got Treize's call. Zechs knew, the moment he saw Treize move rather than speak, that the simple, truthful answer was not forthcoming. He braced himself; something was about to hit the fan.

"My apologies, General Septum," said Treize, bowing and trying to look embarrassed. "It's just… I thought your security policies…" he ended abruptly, leaving a vacuum in the air.

"What about them?" Septum growled.

"Well, sir," said Treize, still in false-modesty mode, "Specials is a mobile suit corps, so we rely upon mobile suits for all forms of defense. Since they're our only asset, it makes sense—to me—that our only guards be active at all times. For me, it's logical that mobile suit guards be on patrol at all times, so that we're not defenseless. I'm sure you have better ways of running things, sir, and I'm sure even your mobile suit bases have their own defense plans. My policy was fortunate in this case, but I lack your experience. Please tell me, what alternative should I pursue? What security policy is better than always-active mobile suit guards?"

The next thing he knew, Zechs was back aboard Treize's shuttle. The rest of the hearing had gone faster than a slap.

"Sir," he said after recovering his bearings, "you know that this means a policy change. Every Specials base needs to implement the policies you said we've been using."

"It's already in progress," said Treize airily, drunk with victory. "Lady Une has it under control."

Zechs shook his head. "Sir, forgive my saying so, but have you no shame at all? If I tried to tell lies half as bold as yours, I could never do it convincingly."

"Shame?" said Treize, as if surprised by the word. "I reserve shame for my friends, Zechs, not my enemies. Sun Tzu espoused deception as one of the first principles of warfare. As to the size of the lie, Hitler knew the truth. Men fall prey to big lies more than small ones; they tell small ones themselves but are too scared to tell big ones. Thus the big one is more believable."

"If you say so, sir," said Zechs, shaking his head.

"I noticed you didn't mention the prisoners you took," Treize said.

"It didn't come up," said Zechs evasively.

Treize smiled. "As you say. What do you plan to do with them?"

"I haven't decided," Zechs said, though that wasn't quite true. He had a few possibilities in mind, but that could wait; he'd tell Treize the results. At this taste of independence, Zechs had begun to think of them as his own prisoners. _They did surrender to me, personally. I would give them to Treize if he asked, but I think he understands the situation._

"Very well," said Treize. "Be on guard. Your peaceful times at Corsica are nearly over. I'll call upon you soon enough."

"I'm your servant and friend," Zechs said, bowing.

A nod and a grin. "I know."

Zechs walked before the prisoners, dressed as formally as he could manage. They sat in chairs before him, their faces shaven (or not, as they wished) and their clothes clean. If not for the two guards with submachine guns nearby, it would have looked like any brief before any class of pilots.

_Well, they didn't suicide with the razor blades,_ Zechs thought. _This just might work._

"Good morning," he said, voice neutral. "My name is First Lieutenant Zechs Marquise. I am the pilot who captured you men."

They mumbled at this news, always keeping their eyes upon him. A year ago, this would have unnerved Zechs horribly. Now, it was his cue to continue.

"The time for subterfuge is over," he said with a sweep of his hand. "We've identified you men. Four of you are from Paris, one from Corsica, and the rest from various parts of France. You belong to the organization AFFF, a group whose goal is the overthrow of the Alliance."

There was surprisingly little reaction from the rebels, but there was enough for Zechs to know he was right. _Very well. Now I'll take off my own mask. Figuratively, of course._

"It's a tragedy that we had to fight, because our goals are the same." He continued over the rapidly mounting murmurs. "I, too, wish to destroy the Alliance. The Special Mobile Suit Corps to which I belong is the cover for OZ. Our goals are the same," he repeated, silencing them with a quick scan of the room. "Since you surrendered to me and not the Alliance, I will treat you very differently from how they would. That includes not punishing you for treason."

He avoided the word 'executing', so as not to suggest he'd considered it. "On the contrary, as far as I can tell, you've done nothing wrong. I'm not going to hold hating the Alliance against you. In fact, I want to give you the chance to fight the Alliance again."

He took a deep breath. "Join me, and join OZ," he said. "We want the same things, but we've been reduced to fighting each other. No longer. Come with me, and we'll fight the Alliance together. OZ has the resources to take it on everywhere, not just France. We'll make the Alliance pay for all it's done. I'm sorry we fought in the past, but that's water under the bridge now. We both need all the comrades we can get."

He paused for a moment, letting them digest things. "If you decide not to join me, I'll transport you to another OZ base. This isn't as punishment," he hastened to say. "You'll be well looked after. However, having revealed OZ to you, I can't let you do anything rash. But for any who choose to join me, I'll see that you're gainfully used. You'll be treated like any other OZ soldiers. If anyone treats you differently, my wrath be upon them. This way, even though your plans failed, you can still fight to destroy the Alliance."

Another pause. "You needn't decide right away," he said. "I'll come to each of you tomorrow, you can answer me then. Just remember: we could really use your help."

He walked away then, entering the cool-down period he always felt after speaking publicly. He relaxed himself, losing some of the stature and grandeur he'd adopted. His defenses lowered a little as well, letting some cynicism creep in.

_Of course, Zechs, give them a song-and-dance about a free __France__ and world peace. But what will they think later, after OZ wins? When __France__ is dissected by Romefeller's dukes and marquises and counts and viscounts and BARONS…_

He snapped back. _Of course not. I fight for the sake of Treize Khushrenada—as these men will if they decide to join OZ._

_ And yet… I fight with Treize, not for him._

Walker moved forward to Zechs. "Sir, that was excellent," he said. "How many do you think will join us?"

"I haven't a clue," Zechs answered honestly.

"Either way, sir, it was great." Walker looked down. "There's just one thing, sir, that I've been meaning to ask you. It occurred to me while I was listening to you."

Walker resettled his gaze on Zechs, like he was trying to pierce the mask with his eyes. "Why do you fight?"

Zechs coughed. "Why do I fight?" he repeated. "Does that matter to you?"

"Not as a soldier," Walker said quickly, apparently embarrassed. "A soldier doesn't care about the motivations of his comrades, right? So long as they keep the same code of conduct, it's alright. But, if I may be allowed, I'm not asking as a soldier."

Walker pointed to the room. "Those men joined… whatever group because they hate the Alliance. I suppose I do, too, but not enough to move me as a person. I don't hate the Alliance that strongly. Honestly, I joined OZ out of boredom. It was something I wanted to do—I wanted to pilot mobile suits."

"Some soldiers do that," Zechs said vaguely.

"But it's not enough," said Walker. "I need… something. If I'm going to be fighting, I want a reason to fight. That's why I was asking why you fight, sir. I respect you as a soldier and a person, and I figured, if there's something that'll make you fight, that'll be enough for me."

_ My own goals haven't changed. I keep that ember buried in my soul. So sad. I use these men as the tools of Zechs Marquise without ever letting them know why I do what I do. It's just too dangerous._

_ And shameful._

"Walker," said Zechs, "you've already had a reason for your actions."

"Sir?" said Walker, drawing back.

"Even before you were a soldier, when you worked at the Corsica factory," Zechs said. "Walker, by working to make sure the mobile suits were top-notch, you were fighting for future soldiers."

"Future soldiers?" Walker said, surprised.

Zechs nodded. "Every mobile suit you made was a weapon used to preserve soldiers' lives at their enemy's expense. It's the same now. You fight with me, you fight for Treize, for the sake of tomorrow's soldiers."

"I do?" said Walker.

"That's what His Excellency's philosophy is all about," Zechs said, running over Walker's doubt. "It's about making things better, easier, for tomorrow's soldiers, so they have to fight less. Then they have to fight less, because some of the battles are already won. And so on, until there's no more war."

"But I haven't been doing that," said Walker.

"It may not have been why you were doing those things," Zechs said, "but it's what you were doing. Why not unite your actions and motives? Say to me, 'I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow'. Give meaning to your life. Give yourself a purpose. Come now, Walker."

"I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow," Walker said with hesitation.

Zechs grunted. "Try it a few more times," he said. "You're not very convincing."

"I fight for the soldiers of tomorrow," Walker said again, but this time with more conviction.

This time Zechs nodded. "You're getting there. Work on it." Without brooking further comments, he walked away, leaving Walker behind him.

_I guess what Treize said about big lies is true,_ he thought. _What did I just tell that man? 'Fight for the soldiers of tomorrow?' I feel like I just said all that to avoid answering his question! Perhaps it is the essence of Treize's philosophy, but it's not something I believe in, and it certainly isn't something __Walker__ ever believed in._

_ Until now, perhaps._

Zechs' mind stopped functioning as it came to the realization. By blending truth and lies, he'd successfully given Walker idealism, purpose, and drive enough to make him a perfect soldier. In other words, Zechs was acting _just like Treize._

_Even if I am acting like Treize,_ he thought defiantly, _it's for different reasons and with different ends in mind. I am my own person._

He tried very hard to convince himself of that.

Though he was having trouble describing just what person he was. Zechs Marquise? Milliardo Peacecraft? Some perverse mixture of the two? All under the shadow of Treize Khushrenada, a man who thrived by drawing others into his orbit.

He'd gotten more sleep when he was training his first class of pilots.

In the end, twelve of the fifteen rebels decided to join Zechs. Three mobile suit pilots, four mechanics, two transport pilots, a demolitions expert, and two commandos joined OZ's ranks.

Zechs sent them to various Specials commands to fully integrate them into OZ. The three who refused were sent to the under-construction Specials base in Antarctica (where two of them gave in and joined OZ anyway.)

Those rebels, in a way Zechs might have noticed but certainly didn't appreciate, took something more with them. They brought and shared the story of a lieutenant who'd treated them with more than fairness.


	13. Setting the Stage

Zechs walked before Treize, showing him the workings of the now fully-operational mobile suit factory. Treize had arrived shortly before to "inspect" the facilities. By all appearances, he was eyeing everything carefully and listening attentively.

Zechs knew Treize better than anyone, and he could see the man was impatient. Little things—the way his smile trembled if you watched it long enough, or brief tenses in his forehead. Only Zechs was with Treize long enough to add it all together, but Zechs could see it clearly.

He finished the tour early.

A short while later they stood in his office. Treize, remarkably, showed a touch more of his humanity; for once he looked tired. The differences in his mannerisms and voice were slight, but present. Zechs almost got himself thinking that Treize was showing them on purpose.

"The time has come, Zechs," Treize said without warning. "The conflicts in Asia are intensifying. It's an unspoken fact that some regional governors are supporting the insurgents. The rebels aren't just peasant villagers any longer. When you look at it over time, you can see the number of attacks has actually decreased, but their intensity has increased. What does that mean to you, Zechs?"

"Central planning," was all Zechs had to say.

Treize nodded. "That's right. The rebels are coming together—probably uniting behind a local hero or central authority. Tighter organization means they can be more ambitious."

Zechs frowned in concentration. "But it also means the most aggressive people are disconnecting from the villages," he said. "They'll have fewer reinforcements and they'll find it harder to hide. Worse, they'll start to suffer from the problems all armies face, such as logistics."

Another nod. "Mao Tse-Tung learned the hard way that it's best to keep guerilla forces as diffuse as possible for as long as possible. He was the last man to lead a successful peasant revolt," he added for Zechs' benefit. "Whenever he tried to fight the national army head-on, his forces were smashed. He finally learned not to confront them, but to annoy them. He called it 'death by a thousand cuts'. Make the enemy's war effort as inefficient as possible, grind down their morale, their numbers, their will to fight, and their supply situation. Then, when the enemy had lost the ability to make war well, Mao overwhelmed them with massive numbers and drove them from the country."

Zechs shook free of the history lesson. "As it is," he said, "the rebels are grouping up. If we destroy them now, we can end the revolt before they relearn Mao's lessons. OZ isn't made for grinding."

Treize smiled grimly. "No, it's not. Our type of warfare destroys centers of power. In a guerilla war, it's inefficient at best. No, we must end this swiftly. This conflict has already gone on for too long, costing too many lives."

As Treize spoke again, Zechs was sure he was sorrow on his friend's face. "I disliked letting this conflict spiral as it has. I could ignore the rising casualties because I could hide behind excuses—that the conflict was good for OZ, and that we didn't have the right tools to counter it. No more. It's time to finish it before it gets any bloodier. There's no point to this fighting. Zechs, my knight, stop this."

"Yes sir," said Zechs.

The moment passed; the penetrating, far-sighted Treize resurfaced. "You can take advantage of your unique position," he said. "We're due to turn this factory over to the Alliance proper. Gather your men and take the next shipment of Leos. Go to the combat zone and join the Alliance forces there. Go directly into battle; join them in the area of engagement and keep your unit intact. You can route through the Alliance's supply base on the Indus River."

"Yes, sir," Zechs repeated, absorbing the details.

"By tomorrow I'll have a full intelligence report on your desk," Treize went on, walking for the door. "Lady Une is working on it now. You'll leave the day after." He paused, not leaving yet. "Zechs… I'm asking this as a friend," he said. "There's no reason OZ should involve itself with this—OZ might be better off if it goes on… But I want it stopped. It isn't war there, it's a series of murders. There's no vindication, no truth, no honor or glory there. That's why I need you to end it."

Zechs spoke. "I'll do it, my friend."

Treize smiled at the words, then departed.

Somehow, Zechs felt worse than before.

* * *

* * *

Zechs hesitated as he dialed for Noin. He felt it was… wrong, somehow, to drag her into his problems. A voice in his head—that sounded like hers—said, "But that's what she wants. She wants to be the person you bother when you need help. She wants to be the one you go to for comfort."

_But it would be an abuse of our relationship to use her like that. I don't want her place in my life to be my emotion-sink._

The Noin-voice said no more, but he could feel it looking at him with a smirk on its… no, that was too esoteric for Zechs. He felt guilty all the same.

__He was actually relieved when the face that appeared on the monitor was not Noin's, but the base operator's. "I'm calling for Instructor Noin," he said.

"Instructor Noin is out supervising an exercise," the operator replied. Zechs breathed a sigh of relief, but felt ashamed at the same time. _Of course. As if Noin wasn't busy enough herself! How can I expect her to be available every time I start feeling sorry for myself?_

He was about to disconnect when the operator spoke again. "Actually, it looks like the exercise has ended prematurely. If you'll wait a few moments, I can patch you through to the instructor's Leo."

"Please do," he said. He shook his head at himself. _This can't go on. I have to distance myself from her emotionally. It's the only way to maintain our friendship. I can't forever hover between friendship and…_

His own worries fled when Noin's harried face appeared on-screen, her hair askew and her face twisted. "Zechs," she rasped, "I'm happy to see you."

Zechs felt the pain her forced cheerfulness couldn't hide. "What happened?" he asked.

She looked down. "There was an accident. A training accident. We were out using the Leos, and one of the pilots strayed. I don't… it's not clear just what happened, but… somehow, one of the other students knocked Simon forward. He opened the cockpit for some reason, and… his Leo landed on a rock. He died three minutes later, from trauma and blood loss."

Silence filled the comm. waves. She'd managed to keep her voice steady throughout her explanation, willing herself to show little emotion. Zechs cursed inwardly. "I'm sorry for calling at such a bad time," he said.

"No," she responded, "I think it was best. I… needed to talk to a friend."

Zechs relaxed a little and felt bad for doing so. "How are the other students taking it?"

"They're shaken up, as you'd expect," she said, more sharply than she meant to. "Alex and Mueller were closest by when it happened. They seem to think they're responsible."

"But you think it's your fault."

"It is my fault," she bit. "I was the supervisor of the exercise. I was the instructor. I don't understand how or why he thought to bail out, but I failed to give him what he needed. I couldn't train him well enough to keep him alive. Good God! If I can't keep trainees alive, how will the soldiers I've trained survive combat?"

"We're not certain about all that," Zechs said. "It could have been a mechanical failure. Maybe it just blew."

"Zechs, even if it's true, it doesn't change how I feel," she said dejectedly. "I failed Simon. No one else, just me. My heart knows it's true."

"Then learn from this," said Zechs. "Become a better instructor for it."

"Thanks for trying to cheer me up," Noin said. "At the same time, go to Hell. Do you think I've been slacking or something? Do you think I wasn't giving my all to these pilots?"

"No, Noin, I know you always do your best. What I'm saying is—"

"That my best isn't good enough?" she snapped.

Zechs paused a moment before continuing. "Yes," he said at last. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have train those pilots. Still, sometimes things are out of our control. Even Treize can't manage everything. One of the first rules of warfare is that something always goes wrong. Dozens of little problems add together to make every task difficult. War's just like that."

"I hate war," Noin said. "I always have."

"But that's also something outside our control," said Zechs. "There will be war, and there will be death. All that we can do, as soldiers, is minimize how much war and death take place. We do that by being the best soldiers we can."

She looked back up at the screen. "Soldiers feel pain, but fight on. They suffer, but don't break. They die, but regret only that they left their job undone." She smiled wryly. "'Definition of Duty in the Present Day', page fourteen, I believe."

"I… didn't realize," he said.

"You've changed a lot," she said, looking at him differently, "but some things haven't changed at all. I wish I could explain better."

"As do I," said Zechs. "I wish I knew what to say to you."

She smiled. "It's enough that you're you… Milliardo Peacecraft. It's enough that you're my friend." She slipped her piloting goggles off of her forehead. "You know that I can't count this towards my timer. It's been four months and four days. When are you going to come see me?"

"I can't tell," said Zechs. "I'm shipping to a new combat zone in two days. Perhaps after that."

She nodded. "Well, I'll see you sooner or later."

"But you will see me," he said. "I promise you that."

"Good." With that, she disconnected.

A part of Zechs went numb.

* * *

* * *

Two carriers passed over Iran on their way to Pakistan. The Indus supply base was their destination. The first carrier held a dozen Leos and six crack pilots, including Zechs. They were to deliver the Leos to the Indus base for distribution to the Alliance offensive in Asia. (Zechs had requested the transport division allow him to handle the operation. The transport divisions' new general had readily agreed.)

The second carrier was an escort carrier, bearing three Aires and three more of Zechs' best pilots. This transport operation would not be caught defenseless.

Zechs stood in the tightly packed cargo area, looking at his Leo. It was fully loaded for battle, bearing a dober gun, beam saber, and rifle, the last in a makeshift harness across the Leo's lower back. He'd practiced with this configuration and was ready for the weight.

_When you think about it, a mobile suit is harmless. It's the man—me—who makes anything dangerous. You can kill someone with shoelaces. And yet… when I look at the Leo, my thoughts become bloody._

_Being able to do something makes you want to do that thing._

He wandered back towards the cockpit without energy. He was feeling very melancholy. It was obvious to his crew, despite his mask, and he was starting to see he was affecting them. He was the leader; his emotions were contagious. Yet he could not summon the will to change his attitude.

The planes drew within a hundred miles. "Sir!" called Otto from the cockpit. "We're picking up a distress signal."

"On my way," said Zechs. Without any effort of his own, he began ticking off the items stolen by the rebels. Small arms. Armored personnel carriers. Heavy infantry weapons. Tanks. The occasional helicopter. Most frightening of all, rocket artillery systems. Those weapons had great range and could smash even Leo armor.

He entered the cockpit. "Report," he said.

"The distress signal is coming from the North Pakistan forward base," said Otto. "They're under heavy attack. This isn't a raid, they're smashing the place."

"This is it, sir," said Juno. "This is our chance to show them the power of Specials."

"Stop it, Juno," Zechs said. "A soldier never rushes to battle, never relishes battle. Battle means one must kill or be killed, and death may come anyway. Battle is the most unpleasant of necessities. No, a soldier mustn't rush to battle."

"But, sir…" Otto began.

"However," Zechs cut off, "once a soldier has looked at the situation and decided that it's worth it, that he must give battle here and now—once he's decided that, he strikes immediately, with all his might." He grabbed a transmitter. "All mobile suit pilots, to your machines. Carrier pilots, set new course. We're diverting to the North Pakistan forward base. Aires pilots, deploy when we're within fifty miles and escort carrier one into battle. I am lightning one; I'll deploy first. Move."

To his Leo he went, leading his men into battle once more.

* * *

* * *

Zechs' mind was a busy place. As he ran through his Leo's checklist, voices haunted his skull.

"Reactor powered up," he announced.

_"It's merely symbolic, but symbols have their own power."_

_"We will instruct these pilots in more than just tactics and techniques. We will indoctrinate them politically. We'll induct them into my organization, OZ, and then make them the best pilots in the Earth sphere."_

_"So if there is anything you need from me, any resource you might require, I will do my utmost to ensure that you receive it."_

"Targeting system online."

_"You are not normal. Be sure they know that. Actively be their commander, have the presence of a commander, and they will follow you."_

_"Treize Khushrenada has faith in me. I just need for that to be enough."_

_"It is hardly fitting for officers in the Alliance to train for battle against the Alliance itself."_

_"Yes, I told her to test you, to push you, to make this class difficult."_

_"Some people will sell their loyalty, but those are not the sorts of people whom we would want in OZ."_

"Navigation system online."

_"Does anyone know the reasons for the engagements just held?" "To boost your ego!" _

_"Our entire existence is preparation for that moment when we stand at the brink. There, and only there, can we find what is great within ourselves."_

_"I told you that I needed a friend. This is hard work. However, I'm quite happy I have you as a… secrets-keeper."_

_"Sir, if I back off, it's the students who will suffer."_

"Cameras online."

_"You will stay on as junior instructors under your favorite soldier, Zechs Marquise."_

_"Perfect proficiency is what we must demand of ourselves if we are to serve OZ properly. The fact that you beat me so easily reveals that I am sorely lacking, regardless of what you say. Complimenting me serves only to boost your ego. Stop it!"_

_"You just vindicated my faith in you. You've just proven, again, why I was right in choosing you as my knight."_

_"The will to fight is an integral part of our humanity."_

_"You don't actually believe you'll lose, do you?"_

"Sensors online."

_"I always liked your true face better."_

_"You know, Zechs, it's typical for preachers to have conviction in their cause before they go converting others."_

_"… for us to be anything closer than colleagues is… is…"_

_"You have no choice but to be a role model, and it's healthy for them to model themselves after you. You're just going to have to live with the adulations of the multitude."_

_"They will bestow upon you the rank of baron, effectively making you one of them, which means that the pressure on you to act your station will be intense."_

_"Does he realize that he has no sway amongst those for whom he's conquering the world?"_

"Communications online."

_"You don't do things 'just because', Zechs, I know that… it bothers me that you don't seem to know for yourself what you're supposed to do."_

_"I'm becoming the person you wanted me to be."_

_"It's not so different, really, our training exercises and combat. Except that if you get hit too often here, you shut down for good."_

_"The son of a pacifist… why did you, of all people, dedicate your life to being the perfect soldier?"_

"Gyrostabilizers online."

_"I said already, I hate the Alliance more than I love OZ. If OZ is no better, I'll have no regrets fighting it."_

_"The day that I fight as Milliardo Peacecraft, I'll have found a way to bring peace to this world."_

_"Do you think so little of me that I would love this person you have just described?"_

_"I admired your strength. And I admired how you had done so much just by deciding what was most important to you. So I decided I wasn't going to be aimless anymore. I decided that you were the most important thing to me. I decided that I would fight for you, because I loved you."_

"Servomotors active. All pseudo-muscles check ready."

_"The left engine is more replacement parts than original ones. Even so, I know it won't fail you, sir. I'll guarantee it."_

_"You will come out now, or my bullets will come in after you."_

_"You risked the lives of those governors on a guess?"_

_"You have an almost diabolical ability to divide people in their opinions of you. There is no disputing that you acted without orders and in violation of the chain of command."_

_"Should I doubt the skills of your pilots?"_

"Thrusters online. Power flows stable."

_"You apologize too much."_

_"Colonel Treize is pleased to report that he has answered your request."_

_"A friend of Zechs'? That's a high compliment indeed."_

_"Zechs, though your abilities as a pilot are peerless, you would do well to broaden a bit."_

_"A commander considers all courses of actions, even the ones he would never undertake."_

"All systems are go."

_"You, Specials pilot, we surrender to you."_

_"I reserve shame for my friends, Zechs, not my enemies."_

_"I respect you as a soldier and a person, and I figured, if there's something that'll make you fight, that'll be enough for me."_

_"There's no vindication, no truth, no honor or glory there. That's why I need you to end it."_

_"Thanks for trying to cheer me up. At the same time, go to Hell."_

"Lightning one, we're nearing the drop zone. I'm opening the rear hatch now."

_"It's enough that you're you."_

"Roger. All pilots, prepare to engage."

"_He either fears his fate too much _

_Or his desserts are small_

_Who dares not put it to the touch_

_To win or lose it all."_

"Drop me."

Zechs and his Leo lost all weight, and sudden sunlight blinded him. There was no noise as the mobile suit hung in the air. There was nothing, no outside world. It was a suspension of being. There was only—

_I am Zechs Marquise._

_I am a true soldier._

His eyes adjusted, gravity was reinstated, and the sounds of battle filled the air.

* * *

* * *

One ear listened for a report from the base commander, one eye surveyed the scene to estimate who had what, the other eye focused on landing safely, the other ear estimated ranges from the sounds of weapons fire.

"Major Kusan," said Zechs, "this is Lightning one. I'm here to relieve you."

"Thanks, though I don't know bloody why," answered a put-upon voice. "We can't even figure out how many there are. They keep hitting and fading, we can't guess where they'll come from next. And they keep calling in artillery!"

"Roger," said Zechs, deftly changing frequencies. "Walker, are your Aires on-station?"

"Yes, sir," he answered.

"Otto, Cunha, take your wingmen and spread to my flanks. Juno, with me. Walker, I want your Aires to find the artillery and kill it. Follow the rockets back to the launchers."

The nine mobile suits moved out. The base's radar had been hit, Zechs noted, but all of his men's sensors were active. He quickly grasped the situation. The rebels had split into three groups. Those groups attacked one after another in different locations, creating the illusion of terrific speed.

The groups themselves, however, weren't moving very quickly.

Only a few of them saw Zechs coming. Those began maneuvering immediately. The others were very bunched together, moving in a line towards the next rally point.

Zechs jumped into the air to change the angle of the shot, then fired twice: once to the front of the line, once to the back.

The enemy was concentrated enough that his dober shells had terrible effect. The first landed between the lead vehicles, tearing the treads off of one tank and collapsing the front of the other. The second shot impacted with the trailing tank, detonating with such force that the APC in front was thrown to its side.

The convoy had nowhere to go. Zechs had created a shooting ground for his men. His pilots were definitely in-practice.

_Six shots remaining for the dober,_ Zechs noted, leading his men past the burnt-out rebel vehicles. The few returning shots at Zechs' squad had missed, so the only cost of the engagement was the ammunition use.

"Sir, artillery destroyed," reported Walker.

"How many?" said Zechs.

"Only three," said Walker, "one for each of us."

Zechs made a note of it. Treize's intelligence report had said six such units had been stolen. Treize hadn't been wrong yet.

"Aires, form on me," he commanded.

Apparently, the rebels hadn't noticed the destruction of a third of their forces. The two other elements were consolidating for a final push on the base. The base's remaining defenses engaged them, and both sides entered a slugfest.

The slugfest ended with Zechs' arrival.

Zechs was forced to use most of his remaining dober shots, but the enemy forces scattered before his men. OZ pilots were just too accurate with their heavy weapons, and Zechs had taught them to maneuver well. Only two shots from rebel tanks impacted with Zechs' forces.

"Are you okay, Vin?" said Zechs.

"I'm fine, sir, but Leo isn't cooperating." Zechs could hear the grimace. "My knee's gone stiff. I can shoot, but I can only limp."

"Vin, return to the base in case the rebels come back. We're entering pursuit. Walker, report."

Even as he spoke, he shrugged off the cumbersome dober and set out at a run, chasing down the rebels. "Sir, the rebels are splitting into three groups."

_Lots of threes today,_ Zechs noticed absently. "That's lucky, we have three Aires," he said. "I want each of you pilots to trail an enemy formation. Don't engage them, I just want them followed. We are going to pursue the rebels to their bases and annihilate them."

"Yes, sir," said Walker. He began splitting up his men.

Zechs reported the situation to Major Kusan. "You're not going to defend the base?" said the major, incredulous.

"I am defending the base," said Zechs, still moving his Leo forward. "I'm destroying threats to the base before they materialize."

"Well, you're one bloodthirsty lieutenant, but you just saved my rear, so go ahead. I owe you the chance."

_You're giving me the chance to do my job? How gracious. Fool. No wonder he was outfought._

The hours flew by as the Leos chased down the smaller rebel vehicles. Zechs wouldn't let his men overtake the rebels, though; they were relying on the rebels to guide them to their bases.

"Lightning one, Aires two," came the call. "My group has stopped at a small depot. Looks like just an ammo dump. Minimal defenses."

"It's not a priority then," said Zechs. "Stay on top of it. We'll kill it when we have the chance. If anyone leaves, engage them, but stay away otherwise."

"Yes, sir."

"Aires three. Found something big."

"Same here," said Walker. "I think this is the main base, sir, there're defenses all over the place."

Zechs checked his map and overlaid it onto his radar screen. Walker was circling above a small bowl-type canyon, and was reporting defenses around the rim of the bowl. _But that won't stop an aggressor,_ he thought. _The area is too spread out, there's too much ground to cover. But if you only need to delay the enemy, it'd work._

_Delay them for…_

"Walker, that's our prime target," he said. "Cunha, take your wingman and investigate Aires three. Juno, Otto, with me."

He doubled checked his fuel gauge. Still about a third of a tank left. They'd need some help getting back to base, but Zechs was not about to let his prey escape now.

"Lightning one, you're closing in on the base now," said Walker. "Another two kilometers and you'll hit the perimeter defenses."

Zechs shifted himself back to maximum alertness. He scanned his view for any sign of weaponry, any threat. He had no desire to discover the lance with his stomach.

Walker struck first. Zechs didn't see the outer defenses until they blossomed into flame.

"Walker, too soon!" he said, accelerating to attack speed. "They're onto you, Walker!"

Only now did Zechs draw in range. He swiftly set about targeting every threat he could see. It was too late to help Walker. Several of the larger guns swept bullets towards him, and some of them connected.

"Get out of there, Walker!" screamed Zechs. He'd lost pilots already. He didn't want to lose any more. To prove it, he pushed himself still harder, diving forwards towards the valley and the enemy base. He destroyed enemies as fast as he targeted them, and targeted them as he destroyed them.

They were through the outer defenses; the vehicles they'd chased for so long now turned to engage them. A dozen tanks and APCs engaged Zechs' three Leos.

The battle lasted about six seconds.

"Walker, are you clear?" said Zechs.

"Yes, sir. I'm shot up, though, I won't be able to make it back to base."

"Find a safe location and set down. We'll be back for you."

"Yes sir."

Zechs tuned Walker out, focusing ever more tightly upon those who stood against him.

There! Stationary gun. Short lateral burst, sweep fire across. Some shells connect. Next target.

There! Tank trio. Short jump to change elevations, fire down, let recoil scatter the shells. Next target.

There!

There!  
There!

His radar screamed at him. As he'd expected, the rocket artillery was opening up. He'd been counting on Walker to remove those when they exposed themselves, but it wasn't…

Those rockets were too strong to ignore. Zechs pulled up, releasing his target, and aimed for the rockets.

"Juno! Otto! Go for the artillery!" he shouted. "Fight your way in!"

As he spoke, he started shooting the rockets.

Three launchers, each with plentiful supplies, sitting at three different angles. Zechs' rifle screamed as he unleashed himself. The rockets were fired individually, with a minimal delay between each rocket. Zechs had to hit each one before they impacted.

His rifle drowned out all other noises, but he'd closed off his sense of hearing. He was working purely on sight and touch.

He hit the rockets.

The first three he hit at considerable distance. The next three came closer. The next three… three more… fifteen… eighteen… twenty-one… twenty-four… twenty-seven… thirty…

Sweat poured down the edges of his mask. His targeting computer buzzed at him, but he let it languish. He was moving and shooting too fast to use it. He was firing faster than the computer could give him solutions, doing it all instantly, instinctively.

Forty-five… forty-eight… fifty-one… and still no cracks in his defense!

He noticed subconsciously that the angles of the rockets were changing. His conscious mind deduced that the artillery was shooting at Juno and Otto as they moved forward. So Zechs moved forward, too—further decreasing the time the rockets spent in the air. He compensated by increasing the pace with which he shot them.

Seventy-two… seventy-five… seventy-eight… no exceptions!

He moved forward again, defying the rockets to beat him. The barrel of his rifle was reaching its melting point, but he couldn't stop now.

Ninety… ninety-three… ninety-six… perfect!

The pace of his firing increased again! The limiting factor on his accuracy and lethality was no longer his skill level. He was being held back by the Leo. It could not answer his call; his demands on it were more than it could handle.

One-eleven… one-fourteen… one-seventeen…

And suddenly zero—no rockets anywhere.

Zechs inhaled.

He could do no more than breathe for several seconds. The barrel of his rifle burned; he tossed it away.

Otto and Juno had finally destroyed the enemy artillery, along with everything between them and their goal. No one would ever ask who the best pilot was.

Zechs wiped his face as he forced himself to breathe. He observed as Otto and Juno did their jobs, destroying the enemy mobile units first. With what strength he still possessed, Zechs pulled his beam saber out and assisted in their work. He had it harder, because he had only the saber. On the other hand, he was the Lightning Baron.

None escaped, though some surrendered.

* * *

* * *

There was no hearing this time.

There was a victory celebration.

Zechs and his eight lieutenants enjoyed the hospitality of his original base, the Specials Advanced Mobile Suit School. Some of the students he'd taught personally gathered for the occasion, as well as the current instructors, some of whom had met him but none of whom knew him.

The conversations were loud and animated, often accompanied by gestures and hand-diagrams. The subject of most conversations was the only one of interest to pilots: piloting. Whether they'd seen combat or only training exercises, everyone had a story to tell.

None of them tried to impress Zechs. The master's identity was known.

Zechs did his share of listening in. He was working on being less awkward at social occasions, something he might have excelled at if his mask hadn't made such things complicated. Then again, he was a quick study.

All noise ceased.

Zechs looked over towards the door. Treize had just entered the room, and all eyes were upon him. His ever-present satisfied expression seemed a trifle broader today.

"Gentlemen," he opened, "I have good news. The Alliance has gone over our records and come to the following conclusions. Specials has, in five battles, protected Alliance interests at minimal cost with maximum effectiveness, while acting completely outside the normal chain of command.

"Therefore, to make the most of our unique abilities, the Alliance has decided to grant Specials a new honor. We now have free reign to intervene at any time, at any battle, without any input from the normal Alliance command structure."

Even OZ's awe for Treize couldn't keep everyone in the room from expressing their opinion at the news. Only Zechs didn't speak, dumbstruck at the Alliance's colossal stupidity.

"Don't misunderstand," said Treize, voice severe but face smiling. "You must still work within OZ's command structure. Do you know why those who hate us let this be? They hope to give us rope enough to hang ourselves. What they don't realize is that they've given us rope enough to hang them."

Treize walked to the punch bowl; soldiers parted before him like the Red Sea. "I declare a toast," he announced. "To Specials, the finest unit in the Alliance by far, ("Hear! Hear!") and to OZ, harbingers of the new world, ("HEAR! HEAR!") and most of all to Lieutenant Zechs, the Lightning Baron, who has made this all possible."

To that, the cries were loudest of all.

Zechs tried to wave the crowd down, but someone (aided by the punch) misinterpreted this gesture. Soon shouts of "Speech! Speech!" resounded through the hall.

_Can't very well disappoint them,_ he thought. So, reluctantly, he stepped into the void where Treize had been and poured himself some punch.

"Even the best soldier can only affect the battlefield he's on," Zechs said. "For his efforts to have meaning, he has to be put in the right place and guided by the right thinking. So, provided it's not impolite to toast your superiors," he looked over to Treize, who shook his head, smiling, "I'd like to toast His Excellency, Lieutenant Colonel Treize Khushrenada. You give meaning to the fighting, sir, and for that, we soldiers owe you everything."

The crowd continued to watch him expectantly, so he raised the cup of punch in the air, then raised it to his lips. The crowd roared, then drank.

Zechs, when he felt the crowd was distracted enough, spat the punch back into the cup.

Now Otto bulled his way towards the punch bowl. He filled his cup and began to speak, the crowd punctuating his blessing with laughter. "Sir," he said, "some of these men had heard legends of your modesty. But you really outdid yourself there. You think you only affect the battlefield you're on? Why, sir, you should know better, that you are no normal soldier! You are it," he said, staggering slightly. "You talk like a martyr, you stand apart wherever you go, and you draw attention to yourself just by existing. You get less credit than you deserve just 'cause you don't want it, and your purity annoys the hell out of everyone you meet. And for all that," said Otto, sloshing his punch with a sweep of his arm, "we need more of you. Gentlemen! Another toast to Lieutenant Zechs!"

So it went, long into the morning. Zechs somehow escaped without getting drunk, which made him unique in yet another way.

Only Zechs noticed that Treize had discreetly exited moments after Zechs' toast.

* * *

* * *

"You didn't enjoy the party, sir?" Zechs said.

"On the contrary," Treize said, "I watched it from afar. I patched the security cameras into my office. I know, for example, that you had a loaf of toasts in your honor. I also know that Flight Officer Vin cannot hold his liquor."

"He has other merits," Zechs said reflexively. It occurred to him a moment later that he didn't need to defend his pilots on this count.

"I went into the party to tell everyone the news, and to focus the party on you. That's all."

"Is that so?" Zechs said.

Treize turned. "A leader who rules from above must stay above." He briskly shook his head. "But enough of that. What opinions do you have about our new status?"

Zechs gave a soft snort. "What a mistake the Alliance made. If I were the Alliance, I would've noticed a pattern by now. Every time I condone Special's actions, every time they step over the border and I let them, they take another step over the new line. Nothing is enough."

"Well, then, I'm glad you're on my side," said Treize. "Whatever their thought processes, the order is given. We have a great privilege, and I intend to use it."

"Will we have the opportunity? Sir, the Alliance is building up again, beyond what they could have needed. At the same time, rebelliousness is dropping. The Alliance is expanding its operations in the Himalayas. They're calling it a "permanent offensive" running through the Indus base. The Middle East nations are scrambling to apologize for the renegade emirates. The industrialized nations are paralyzed by indecision and spinelessness. The colonies still aren't fighting back. The world is firmly under the Alliance's control, now more than ever. Who are we going to fight?"

"There are always training exercises," Treize said coyly. "It is odd you mentioned the colonies. I have been getting vague reports about some sort of action—from the colonies."

"Is that right?" said Zechs. He tried to set his normal thought processes into motion, but there was a problem—he knew nothing about the colonies. "I don't know what to think," he said.

"It's very low-level for now," said Treize, "but it's consistently there. Some kind of new weapon, according to reports, but that's as detailed as it gets. I'll keep an eye on it, you needn't worry."

"Thank you, sir," said Zechs. He shook his head.

"What is it?" asked Treize.

Zechs looked at his friend. "How does the Alliance do it? There have been some fairly significant rebellions over the past two years, but the greater Alliance seems not to notice. They continue in their stagnate, politicking careerism, they keep to the same policies, everything is static. Did they not notice the attacks on Pokhran and Somalia and North Pakistan?"

"Some noticed, of that I'm sure," Treize answered.

"You know what I mean," Zechs said. "The Alliance had the gall to call AC 193 a 'year of peace' despite Pokhran and Somalia. The Alliance is not a meritocracy. It's not even close to efficient at anything. How does it hang on?

"It's been bad, recently, but it would have been worse without OZ's intervention. What would the Alliance have done without Specials? I don't understand how the Alliance can hold onto power despite its flaws."

"There are a few factors at work," said Treize. "It's a combination of low-level brutality and a redefinition of 'peace'. Firstly, the Alliance considers any attacks against it and without government sanction to be 'incidents'. It doesn't count incidents into its definition of peace."

"What?" said Zechs, shocked. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Look at it from the Alliance perspective," said Treize, holding out his hands. "The Alliance expects a certain amount of violence against itself. As far as they're concerned, it goes with the role of ruling the world. They feel it's unrealistic to expect total peace. Any amount of violence below such-and-so number of casualties goes unnoticed by the High Command. They leave it to regional governors."

Zechs frowned. "So one of the reasons that Specials upsets them is because we're non-territorial. When we act in India or Somalia, we cause a scandal because it's not our turf."

Treize nodded. "That's it. It wasn't just that we didn't consult High Command; it's that we didn't consult High Command before stepping on someone else's toes."

"Scylla is our friend," Zechs said with a wry grin.

Treize acknowledged the joke. "So, those were all 'incidents', and the Alliance doesn't care. The case of the emirates was a close one, because the emirates almost qualify as governments. It's governments that the Alliance really cares about, because governments contribute the troops and money the Alliance needs.

"The reason the Alliance makes the distinction of "incidents" is because, if a government acts, it becomes a war."

"Only governments?" said Zechs.

"That's the strict definition of war," said Treize. "War is politics by other means, a method governments use to enforce their will. It only happens between governments. Any other action using force isn't war. It's an 'incident' or a 'rebellion' or 'terrorism'. All the same. How cowardly the rebels are typically defines the label used, with terrorism being the most cowardly and rebellion the least."

"The Alliance only cares about preventing wars? Not incidents or terrorism?"

"It does, but to a lesser extent," said Treize. "The Earth-sphere is large, and violence comes with the territory. So long as it stays below the government level, the High Command doesn't care. They leave it to the regional governors."

Zechs shook his head. "So the regional governors decide how much oppression to apply in any given region."

"Correct," said Treize. "Regional governors squash most problems with oppression at the lowest levels; this intimidates governments enough to keep things in order; everything else is 'incidents.' There are exceptions, of course."

The hairs on Zechs' neck stood up. "Like the Sanc Kingdom?"

Treize frowned slightly. "Yes and no. At that time, there was a general increase in rebelliousness. Those years were troubled ones, with problems cropping up all over. The officer in question proposed that he make an example of the Sanc Kingdom."

"I know his reasoning," Zechs said. "It was bad enough that the Kingdom did oppose the Alliance. But because of the Sanc Kingdom's pacifism, an attack could derive maximum benefit at the minimal cost. The invasion itself would be easy and rapid. Once complete, it would force other nations to think, 'If this is what they did to pacifists, what might they do to us?'"

"And it worked," said Treize. "So a global problem was addressed by local solutions, as is the norm."

Zechs took a deep, calming breath. "Never mind the past. Tell me about the future. What am I to do next?"

"There's nothing more that needs your talents at the moment," said Treize as he stood, "so I have something different in mind. I'm placing you on call."

"What does that mean, sir?"

Treize walked to his desk. "There are a few areas of military study you haven't yet mastered. I want you to spend the next six months refining your skills and expanding what you can do. I want you to review the naval mobile suits, Cancer and Pisces; I want you to develop a competency for space combat; and, in the final month or so, I want an evaluation of this new model of carrier." Treize held up a picture. The carrier was small, capable of holding few suits, but it had armaments and, from the look, limited space-flight capability. _Probably an upper-atmosphere skimmer_, Zechs thought, mind on autopilot.

Treize handed a manual to Zechs. "The prototype will be your personal carrier for when we begin Operation Daybreak."

Zechs looked up in surprise. "Oper—so soon?"

Treize smiled broadly. "Lady Une finished her calculations yesterday. By our analysis, OZ will have all the men it needs in all the right places by early AC 195."

Zechs put a hand to his mask. "That was far earlier than I expected," he said.

"I know," said Treize, "but delay is not our friend. Don't worry, we left a considerable margin for error. Even so, Lady Une is very astute at this kind of work. Her numbers are good."

Zechs nodded. "So, early AC 195."

"That's right. One more thing." Treize walked to the window. He gazed again through the glass. _You're almost there, Treize,_ thought Zechs. _A year and a half ago, your ambition was confined. You controlled a single base in a wasteland. Yesterday, you were told that you're on course to conquer the world. The rest is just waiting._

"I'm being promoted to Colonel," Treize continued. "As a result, and because of Specials' new status, they're assigning me a post on the High Command."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" asked Zechs.

"A good thing, for the most part. But... I fear that I may become more distant from my soldiers. When I'm surrounded by corrupt, scheming derelicts, I fear I may lose sight of my goals and ideals. Zechs, I'll need you to keep my eyes on the truth should I stray."

When Treize turned back to Zechs, there was a smile on his friend's face. "Sir," he said, "I serve as a conduit for your idealism—idealism I don't fully believe myself. Nevertheless, I indoctrinate pilots in it and keep OZ focused on you. And what do you say to me? That I, who lacks idealism, must guide the idealist? Sir, OZ will follow—or not follow—based on what you believe, but OZ can't tell you what you believe. Neither can I. I must refuse."

Treize caught Zechs' smile. "You said 'no' to me. That's very healthy."

"I've been waiting a year and a half to get to say 'no' about something," Zechs answered.

"Honestly, I expected as much," said Treize. "I continue on as I have before, relying on myself for direction and you for execution."

"That's what I do best," said Zechs. "But I wasn't joking. I can't tell you what your perfect world is. That has to come from you."

"I know," said Treize. "And I'll continue to guide by that light, no matter who tries to dampen it." He extended a hand to Zechs. "When we first came to this place, I told you that everyone was being tested. Me, you, your pilots, everyone. The tests are complete. The rehearsals are over. All that's left is to wait for the curtain to rise."

Zechs grasped the offered hand. "I look forward to that day."

"Thank you, friend."

* * *


	14. The Perfect Soldier

Zechs did most of what Treize requested. He qualified on the Pisces and the Cancer, qualified to operate on the space Leo, and began thorough shakedowns for the new assault carrier. Along with his command crew of Vin, Otto, Cunha, and Juno, he began testing every aspect of the machine.

He kept his ears open to current events, through both Alliance and OZ channels. To his surprise, a few segments of the Alliance were growing weary of the ceaseless oppression required to keep the Alliance intact. He doubted that these men would ever bring actual changes to Alliance policy, but anything that weakened the Alliance he approved.

The other bit of news that intrigued him was growing warnings of some "Operation M". Apparently, someone in the colonies was finally growing fed up with the Alliance. This operation to deliver weapons to Earth would be the first militant action in the colonies' history. Zechs made sure to keep tabs on every bit of news OZ could dig up on Operation M.

Every day that passed brought Operation Daybreak closer to fruition.

Each place Zechs went to developed a higher regard for him—for his skills, modesty, intelligence, and integrity. He visited many OZ bases, and in each one he was known.

Zechs Marquise, the masked baron in red and black. Zechs Marquise, the lieutenant who struck faster and shone brighter than lightning. Zechs Marquise, who always bent over backwards to ensure the safety of his men. Zechs Marquise, master of every sort of fighting. Zechs Marquise, as honest out of combat as deadly in combat. Zechs Marquise, the Arm of OZ and first of Treize's Knights.

Zechs Marquise, legend in his own time.

The Beginning


End file.
